Gllr 


PROM  THE 
.  II  LIBRARY  OF 

^^^Im'-^r  ■■■.■■ 


WILLIAM 

AND  ANNL 
HABBERLEY 


KNEBWORTH  LIMITED   EDITION 


Ernest  Maltravers 


BY 


EDWARD    BULWER    LYTTON 


(LOUD    LYTTON) 


WITH     ILLUSTRATIONS 


BOSTON 

ESTES     AND     LAUPIAT 

1891 


KNEBWORTH   LIMITED    EDITION. 

Limited  to  One  Thousand  Copies. 

No,.595 


-/^1;*^-X.<^^^d  <9-t^i^ 


TVrOGRAPHY,  ELECTROTYPING,  AND 
PRINTING  BY  JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON. 
UNIVERSITY  PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS 


M5y:'a?G 


THE  GREAT  GERMAN  PEOPLE, 

A  RACE   OF  THINKERS  AND  OF  CRITICS;    A   FOREIGN   BUT 

FAMILIAR  AUDIENCE,  PROFOUND   IN  JUDGMENT, 

CANDID  IN  REPROOF,  GENEROUS   IN 

APPRECIATION, 

Cfjis  asaorh  is  BcDicatcti 

BY  AN  ENGLISH  AUTHOR 


PREFACE   TO   THE   EDITION  OF   1840. 


However  numerous  the  works  of  fiction  with  which,  my 
dear  reader,  I  have  trespassed  on  your  attention,  I  have 
pubhshed  but  three,  of  any  account,  in  which  the  plot  has 
been  cast  amidst  the  events  and  coloured  by  the  manner 
of  our  own  times.  The  first  of  these,  "  Pelham,"  composed 
when  I  was  little  more  than  a  boy,  has  the  faults,  and 
perhaps  the  merits,  natural  to  a  very  early  a,t>(^,  —  when  the 
novelty  itself  of  life  quickens  the  observation  ;  when  we  see 
distinctly,  and  represent  vividly,  what  lies  upon  the  surface 
of  the  world ;  and  when,  half  sympathizing  with  the  follies 
we  satirize,  there  is  a  gusto  in  our  paintings  which  atones 
for  their  exaggeration.  As  we  grow  older  we  observe  less, 
we  reflect  more  ;  and,  like  Frankenstein,  we  dissect  in 
order  to  create. 

The  second  novel  of  the  present  day  ^  which,  after  an 
interval  of  some  years,  I  submitted  to  the  world  was  one  I 
now  for  the  first  time  acknowledge,  and  which  (revised  and 
corrected)  will  be  included  in  this  series ;  namely,  "  Go- 
dolphin,"  —  a  work  devoted  to  a  particular  portion  of  so- 
ciety and  the  development  of  a  peculiar  class  of  character. 
The  third,  which  I  now  reprint,  is  "  Ernest  Maltravers,"  ^ 

J  For  "The  Disowned  "  is  oast  in  the  timo  nf  our  j^jrand fathers,  and 
"  The  Pili:!;rims  of  the  Rhine  "  had  nothinp;  to  do  witli  actual  life,  and  is 
not,  therefore,  to  be  calh'd  a  novel. 

■^  At  the  date  of  this  preface  "  Niglit  and  Morning "  had  not 
appeared. 


vi  PREFACE   TO   THE   EDITION   OF   1840. 

—  the  most  mature,  and  ou  the  whole  the  most  compre- 
hensive, of  all  that  I  have  hitherto  written. 

For  the  original  idea  —  which  with  humility  I  will  venture 
to  call  the  philosophical  design  —  of  a  moral  education  or 
apprenticeship,  I  have  left  it  easy  to  be  seen  that  I  am 
indebted  to  Goethe's  "  Wilhelm  Meister."  But  in  "  Wil- 
helm  Meister  "  the  apprenticeship  is  rather  that  of  theoret- 
ical art.  In  the  more  homely  plan  that  I  set  before  myself, 
the  apprenticeship  is  rather  that  of  practical  life  ;  and  with 
this  view  it  has  been  especially  my  study  to  avoid  all  those 
attractions  lawful  in  romance  —  or  talcs  of  pure  humour  or 
unbridled  fancy,  —  attractions  that  in  the  language  of 
reviewers  are  styled  under  the  head  of  "  most  striking  de- 
scriptions," "  scenes  of  extraordinary  power,"  etc.,  and 
are  derived  from  violent  contrasts  and  exaggerations 
pushed  into  caricature.  It  has  been  my  aim  to  subdue  and 
tone  down  the  persons  introduced,  and  the  general  agencies 
of  the  narrative,  into  the  lights  and  shadows  of  life  as  it  is. 
I  do  not  mean  by  "  life  as  it  is  "  the  vulgar  and  the  out- 
ward life  alone,  but  life  in  its  spiritual  and  mystic  as  well 
as  its  more  visible  and  fleshly  characteristics.  The  idea  of 
not  only  describing  but  developing  character  under  the 
ripening  influences  of  time  and  circumstance  is  not  con- 
fined to  the  apprenticeship  of  Maltravers  alone,  but  per- 
vades the  progress  of  Cesarini,  Ferrers,  and  Alice  Darvil. 

The  original  conception  of  Alice  is  taken  from  real  life, 

—  from  a  person  I  never  saw  but  twice,  and  then  she  was 
no  longer  young,  l)ut  whose  history  made  on  me  a  deep 
impression.  Her  early  ignorance  and  home ;  her  first 
love  ;  the  strange  and  affecting  fidelity  that  she  maintained, 
in  spite  of  new  ties ;  her  final  re-meeting,  almost  in  middle- 
age,  with  one  lost  and  adored  almost  in  childliood,  —  all 
this,  as  shown  in  the  novel,  is  but  the  imperfect  transcript 
of  the  true  adventures  of  a  liviuir  woman. 


PREFACE   TO   THE   EDITION   OF    1840.  vii 

In  regard  to  Maltravers  himself,  I  must  own  that  I  have 
but  inadequately  struggled  against  the  great  and  obvious 
difficulty  of  representing  an  author  living  in  our  own  times, 
with  whose  supposed  works  or  alleged  genius,  and  those  of 
any  one  actually  existing,  the  reader  can  establish  no  iden- 
tification,—  and  he  is  therefore  either  com})elled  constantly 
to  humour  the  delusion  by  keeping  his  imagination  on  the 
stretch,  or  lazily  driven  to  confound  the  author  in  the 
book  with  the  author  of  the  book.^  But  I  own  also  I 
fancied,  while  aware  of  this  objection  and  in  spite  of  it, 
that  so  much  not  hitherto  said  might  be  conveyed  with 
advantage  through  the  lips  or  in  the  life  of  an  imaginary 
writer  of  our  own  time,  that  I  was  contented,  on  the  whole, 
either  to  task  the  imagination  or  submit  to  the  suspicions 
of  the  reader.  All  that  my  own  egotism  approi)riates  in 
the  book  are  some  occasional  remarks,  the  natural  result  of 
practical  experience.  With  the  life  or  the  character,  the 
adventures  or  the  humours,  the  errors  or  the  good  qualities, 
of  Maltravers  himself  1  have  nothing  to  do,  except  as  the 
narrator  and  inventor. 

E.  B.  L. 

^  In  some  foreign  journal  I  have  been  much  amused  by  a  credulity  of 
this  latter  description,  and  seen  the  various  adventures  of  Mr.  Mal- 
travers gravely  approi)riated  to  the  euihellishment  of  my  own  life,  in- 
cluding the  attachment  to  the  original  of  poor  Alice  Darvil,  —  who  now, 
by  the  way,  must  be  at  least  seventy  years  of  age,  with  a  grandchild 
nearly  as  old  as  myself. 


A   WORD   TO   THE   READER. 

TREFIXED   TO   THE   FIRST   EDITION   OF   1837. 


Thou  must  not,  my  old  and  partial  friend,  look  into  this 
work  for  that  species  of  interest  which  is  drawn  from 
stirring  adventures  and  a  perpetual  variety  of  incident. 
To  a  novel  of  the  present  day  are  necessarily  forbidden  the 
animation,  the  excitement,  the  bustle,  the  pomp,  and  the 
stage-effect  which  history  affords  to  romance.  Whatever 
merits  in  thy  gentle  eyes  "  Ricnzi,"  or  "  The  Last  Days  of 
Pompeii,"  may  have  possessed,  this  tale,  if  it  please  thee  at 
all,  must  owe  that  happy  fortune  to  qualities  widely  differ- 
ent from  those  which  won  thy  favour  to  pictures  of  the 
past.  Thou  must  sober  down  thine  imagination,  and  pre- 
pare thyself  for  a  story  not  dedicated  to  the  narrative  of 
extraordinary  events,  nor  the  elucidation  of  the  characters 
of  great  men.  Though  there  is  scarcely  a  i)agc  in  this 
work  episodical  to  the  main  design,  there  may  be  much 
that  may  seem  to  thee  wearisome  and  prolix,  if  thou  wilt 
not  lend  thyself  in  a  kindly  spirit  and  with  a  generous 
trust  to  the  guidance  of  the  Author.  In  the  hero  of  this 
•talc  thou  wilt  find  neither  a  majestic  demigod  nor  a  fasci- 
nating demon.  He  is  a  man  with  the  weaknesses  derived 
from  humanity,  with  the  strength  that  we  inherit  from  the 
soul,  —  not  often  obstinate  in  error,  more  often  irresolute 
in  virtue ;  sometimes  too  aspiring,  sometimes  too  despond- 
ent ;  influenced  by  the  circumstances  to  which  he  yet  strug- 
gles to  be  superior,  and  changing  in   character  with  the 


X  A  WORD   TO   THE   READER. 

changes  of  time  and  fate ;  but  never  wantonly  rejecting 
those  great  principles  by  which  alone  we  can  work  out  the 
Science  of  Life,  —  a  desire  for  the  Good,  a  passion  for  the 
Honest,  a  yearning  after  the  True.  From  such  principles, 
Experience,  that  severe  Mentor,  teaches  us  at  length  the 
safe  and  practical  philosophy  which  consists  of  fortitude  to 
bear,  serenity  to  enjoy,  and  faith  to  look  beyond  ! 

It  would  have  led,  perhaps,  to  more  striking  incidents, 
and  have  furnished  an  interest  more  intense,  if  I  had  cast 
Maltravers,  the  Man  of  Genius,  amidst  those  fierce  but 
ennobling  struggles  witli  poverty  and  want  to  which  genius 
is  so  often  condemned.  But  wealth  and  lassitude  have 
their  temptations  as  well  as  penury  and  toil.  And  for  the 
rest,  I  have  taken  much  of  my  tale  and  many  of  my  char- 
acters from  real  life,  and  would  not  unnecessarily  seek 
other  fountains  when  the  Well  of  Truth  was  in  my  reach. 

The  Author  has  said  his  say  ;  he  retreats  once  more  into 
silence  and  into  shade  ;  he  leaves  you  alone  with  the  cre- 
ations he  has  called  to  life,  —  the  representatives  of  his 
emotions  and  his  thoughts,  the  intermediators  between  the 
individual  and  the  crowd.  Children  not  of  the  clay,  but  of 
the  spirit,  may  they  be  faithful  to  their  origin !  So  should 
they  be  monitors,  not  loud  but  deep,  of  the  world  into 
which  they  are  cast,  struggling  against  the  o))staclcs  that 
will  beset  them  lor  the  heritage  of  their  parent,  —  the  right 
to  survive  the  grave ! 

London,  August  12,  1837. 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Pagb 

Maltravers  and  Alice  —  the  Music  Lesson      .    .     .      Frontispiece 

Valerie  and  Maltravers  at  the  Window 88 

"Every  day  he  rode  out  with  Valerie" 214 

Lady  Florence  and  Maltravers       33(? 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 


BOOK    I. 


Th  yap  vea^ov  iu  rotoTaSe  fioffKerai 
XdpOKTtv  aiiTov '    kw.  viv  ov  daKiros  Ofov 
OvS  6fi$pos,  ovSe  irvevfj-dTwv  oiiSev  KKovfi 
'A\\'  T]Soya7s  d/uoxSov  i^a'ipei  fiiov. 

Sophocles  :  Trachin.  144-147. 

"  Youth  pastures  in  a  valley  of  its  own  : 
The  glare  of  noon,  the  rains  and  wiuJs  of  heaven 
Mar  not  the  calm  yet  virgin  of  all  care  ; 
But  ever  with  sweet  joys  it  buildeth  up 
The  airy  halls  of  life." 


CHAPTER   I. 

My  meaning  in't,  I  protest,  was  very  honest  in  the  behalf  of  the  maid 
.  .  .  yet  who  would  have  suspected  au  ambush  where  I  was  taken  ?  — All 's 
Well  that  Ends  Well,  Act.  iv.  sc.  3. 

Some  four  miles  distant  from  one  of  our  nortliern  manufact- 
uring towns,  in  the  year  18 — ,  was  a  wide  and  desolate  com- 
mon. A  more  dreary  spot  it  is  impossible  to  conceive;  the 
herbage  grew  up  in  sickly  patches  from  the  midst  of  a  black 
and  stony  soil;  not  a  tree  was  to  be  seen  in  the  whole  of  the 
comfortless  expanse.  Nature  herself  had  seemed  to  desert 
the  solitude,  as  if  scared  by  the  ceaseless  din  of  the  neigh- 
bouring forges ;  and  even  Art,  which  presses  all  things  into 
service,  had  disdained  to  cull  use  or  beauty  from  these  un- 
promising demesnes.     There  was  something  weird  and  prime- 

1 


2  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

val  in  tlie  aspect  of  the  place,  especially  when  in  the  long 
nights  of  winter  you  beheld  the  distant  fires  and  lights,  which 
give  to  the  vicinity  of  certain  manufactories  so  preternatural 
an  appearance,  streaming  red  and  wild  over  the  waste.  So 
abandoned  by  man  appeared  the  spot  that  you  found  it  diffi- 
cult to  imagine  that  it  was  only  from  human  fires  that  its 
bleak  and  barren  desolation  was  illumined.  For  miles  along 
the  moor  you  detected  no  vestige  of  any  habitation;  but  as 
you  approached  the  verge  nearest  to  the  town  you  could  just 
perceive  at  a  little  distance  from  the  main  road,  by  which  the 
common  was  intersected,  a  small,  solitary,  and  miserable 
hovel. 

Within  this  lonely  abode,  at  the  time  in  which  my  story 
opens,  were  seated  two  persons.  The  one  was  a  man  of  about 
fifty  years  of  age,  and  in  a  squalid  and  wretched  garb,  which 
was  yet  relieved  by  an  affectation  of  ill-assorted  finery.  A 
silk  handkerchief,  which  boasted  the  ornament  of  a  large 
brooch  of  false  stones,  was  twisted  jauntily  round  a  muscular 
but  meagre  throat ;  his  tattered  breeches  were  also  decorated 
by  buckles, —  one  of  pinchbeck,  and  one  of  steel.  His  frame 
was  lean,  but  broad  and  sinewy,  indicative  of  considerable 
strength.  His  countenance  was  prematurely  marked  by  deep 
furrows,  and  his  grizzled  hair  waved  over  a  low,  rugged,  and 
forbidding  brow,  on  which  there  hung  an  everlasting  frown 
that  no  smile  from  the  lips  (and  the  man  smiled  often)  could 
chase  away.  It  was  a  face  that  spoke  of  long-continued  and 
hardened  vice ;  it  was  one  in  which  the  Past  had  written  in- 
delible characters.  The  brand  of  the  hangman  could  not  have 
stamped  it  more  plainly,  nor  have  more  unequivocally  warned 
the  suspicion  of  honest  or  timid  men. 

He  was  employed  in  counting  some  few  and  paltry  coins, 
which,  though  an  easy  matter  to  ascertain  their  value,  he 
told  and  retold,  as  if  the  act  could  increase  the  amount. 
"  There  must  be  some  mistake  here,  Alice, "  he  said  in  a  low 
and  muttered  tone;  "we  can't  be  so  low.  You  know  I  had 
two  pounds  in  the  drawer  but  Monday,  and  now —  Alice, 
you  must  have  stolen  some  of  the  mone}',  curse  you !  " 

The  person  thus  addressed  sat  at  the  opposite  side  of  the 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  3 

smouldering  and  sullen  fire;  she  now  looked  quietly  up,  and 
her  face  singularly  contrasted  that  of  the  man. 

She  seemed  about  fifteen  years  of  age,  and  her  complexion 
was  remarkably  pure  and  delicate,  even  despite  the  siinburnt 
tinge  which  her  habits  of  toil  had  brought  it.  Her  auburn 
hair  hung  in  loose  and  natural  curls  over  her  forehead,  and 
its  luxuriance  was  remarkable  even  in  one  so  young.  Her 
countenance  was  beautiful, —  nay,  even  faultless, —  in  its 
small  and  child-like  features ;  but  the  expression  pained  you, 
it  was  so  vacant.  In  repose  it  was  almost  the  expression  of 
an  idiot;  but  when  she  spoke  or  smiled,  or  even  moved  a 
muscle,  the  eyes,  colour,  lips,  kindled  into  a  life,  which 
proved  that  the  intellect  was  still  there,  though  but  imper- 
fectly awakened. 

"  I  did  not  steal  any,  Father, "  she  said  in  a  quiet  voice ; 
"  but  I  should  like  to  have  taken  some,  only  I  knew  you  would 
beat  me  if  I  did." 

"And  what  do  you  want  money  for?" 

"To  get  food  when  I'm  hungered." 

"Nothing  else?" 

"I  don't  know."  The  girl  paused.  "Why  don't  you  let 
me,"  she  said,  after  a  while, —  "why  don't  you  let  me  go  and 
work  with  the  other  girls  at  the  factory?  I  should  make 
money  there  for  you  and  me  both." 

The  man  smiled  —  such  a  smile !  It  seemed  to  bring  into 
sudden  play  all  the  revolting  characteristics  of  his  counte- 
nance. "Child,"  he  said,  "you  are  just  fifteen,  and  a  sad 
fool  you  are.  Perhaps  if  you  went  to  the  factory,  you  would 
get  away  from  me;  and  what  should  I  do  without  you?  No; 
I  think,  as  you  are  so  pretty,  you  might  get  more  money 
another  way." 

The  girl  did  not  seem  to  understand  this  allusion ;  but  re- 
peated, vacantly,  "I  should  like  to  go  to  the  factory." 

"Stuff!"  said  the  man,  angrily;  "I  have  three  minds 
to  —  " 

Here  he  was  interrupted  by  a  loud  knock  at  the  door  of  the 
hovel. 

The  man  grew  pale.     "What  can  that  be?"  he  muttered. 


4  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

"The  hour  is  late  —  near  eleven.  Again  —  again !  Ask  who 
knocks,  Alice." 

The  girl  stood  for  a  moment  or  so  at  the  door;  and  as  she 
stood,  her  form  rounded  yet  slight,  her  earnest  look,  her 
varying  colour,  her  tender  youth,  and  a  singular  grace  of  at- 
titude and  gesture  would  have  inspired  an  artist  with  the  very 
ideal  of  rustic  beauty. 

After  a  pause  she  placed  her  lips  to  a  chink  in  the  door, 
and  repeated  her  father's  question. 

"Pray,  pardon  me,"  said  a  clear,  loud,  yet  courteous  voice; 
"but  seeing  a  light  at  your  window,  I  have  ventured  to  ask  if 

any  one  within  will  conduct  me  to  .     I  will  pay  the 

service  handsomely." 

"  Open  the  door.  Alley, "  said  the  owner  of  the  hut. 

The  girl  drew  a  large  wooden  bolt  from  the  door ;  and  a  tall 
figure  crossed  the  threshold. 

The  new-comer  was  in  the  first  bloom  of  youth,  perhaps 
about  eighteen  years  of  age,  and  his  air  and  appearance  sur- 
prised both  sire  and  daughter.  Alone,  on  foot,  at  such  an 
hour,  it  was  impossible  for  any  one  to  mistake  him  for  other 
than  a  gentleman;  yet  his  dress  was  plain  and  somewhat 
soiled  by  dust,  and  he  carried  a  small  knapsack  on  his  shoul- 
der. As  he  entered,  he  lifted  his  hat  with  somewhat  of  for- 
eign urbanity,  and  a  profusion  of  fair  brown  hair  fell  partially 
over  a  high  and  commanding  forehead.  His  features  were 
handsome,  without  being  eminently  so,  and  his  aspect  was  at 
once  bold  and  prepossessing. 

"I  am  much  obliged  by  your  civility,"  he  said,  advancing 
carelessly  and  addressing  the  man,  who  surveyed  him  with  a 
scrutinizing  eye,  "and  trust,  my  good  fellow,  that  you  will 
increase  the  obligation  by  accompanying  me  to ." 

"You  can't  miss  well  your  way,"  said  the  man,  surlily; 
"the  lights  will  direct  you." 

"They  have  rather  misled  me,  for  they  seem  to  surround 
the  whole  common,  and  there  is  no  path  across  it  that  I  can 
see ;  however,  if  you  will  put  me  in  the  right  road  I  will  not 
trouble  you  further." 

"It  is  very  late,"  replied  the    hurlish  landlord,  equivocally. 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  6 

"  The  better  reason  why  I  shouhl  be  at .     Come,  my 

good  friend,  put  on  your  hat,  and  1  will  give  you  half  a  guinea 
for  your  trouble." 

The  man  advanced,  then  halted;  again  surveyed  his  guest, 
and  said,  "Are  you  quite  alone,  sir?" 

"Quite." 

"Probably  you  are  known  at ?" 

"Not  I.  But  what  matters  that  to  you?  I  am  a  stranger 
in  these  parts." 

"It  is  full  four  miles." 

"  So  far,  and  I  am  fearfully  tired  already !  "  exclaimed  the 
young  man  with  impatience.  As  he  spoke  he  drew  out  his 
watch.     "  Past  eleven  too !  " 

The  watch  caught  the  eye  of  the  cottager;  that  evil  eye 
sparkled.  He  passed  his  hand  over  his  brow.  "I  am 
thinking,  sir,"  he  said  in  a  more  civil  tone  than  he  had  yet 
assumed,  "  that  as  you  are  so  tired  and  the  hour  is  so  late, 
you  might  almost  as  well  —  " 

"What?"  exclaimed  the  stranger,  stamping  somewhat 
petulantly. 

"I  don't  like  to  mention  it;  but  my  poor  roof  is  at  your 
service,  and  I  would  go  with  you  to  at  daybreak  to- 
morrow." 

The  stranger  stared  at  the  cottager,  and  then  at  the  dingy 
walls  of  the  hut.  He  was  about,  very  abruptly,  to  reject  the 
hospitable  proposal,  when  his  eye  rested  suddenly  on  the  form 
of  Alice,  who  stood  eager-eyed  and  open-mouthed,  gazing  on 
the  handsome  intruder.  As  she  caught  his  eye,  she  blushed 
deeply  and  turned  aside.  The  view  seemed  to  change  the  in- 
tentions of  the  stranger.  He  hesitated  a  moment,  then  mut- 
tered between  his  teeth ;  and  sinking  his  knapsack  on  the 
ground  he  cast  himself  into  a  chair  beside  the  fire,  stretched 
his  limbs,  and  cried  gayly,  "So  be  it,  my  host.  Sliut  up 
your  house  again;  bring  me  a  cup  of  beer  and  a  crust  of 
bread,  and  so  much  for  supper!  As  for  bed,  this  chair  will 
do  vastly  well." 

"Perhaps  we  can  manage  better  for  you  than  that  chair," 
answered  the  host.     "  But  our  best  accommodation  must  seem 


6  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

bad  enough  to  a  gentleman;  we  are  very  poor  people,  —  hard- 
working, but  very  poor." 

"Never  mind  me,"  answered  the  stranger,  busying  himself 
in  stirring  the  fire ;  "  I  am  tolerably  well  accustomed  to  greater 
hardships  than  sleeping  on  a  chair  in  an  honest  man's  house; 
and  though  you  are  poor,  I  will  take  it  for  granted  you  are 
honest." 

The  man  grinned,  and  turning  to  Alice,  bade  her  spread 
what  their  larder  would  afford.  Some  crusts  of  bread,  some 
cold  potatoes,  and  some  tolerably  strong  beer  composed  all 
the  fare  set  before  the  traveller. 

Despite  his  previous  boasts,  the  young  man  made  a  wry 
face  at  these  Socratic  preparations,  while  he  drew  his  chair 
to  the  board.  But  his  look  grew  more  gay  as  he  caught 
Alice's  eye;  and  as  she  lingered  by  the  table,  and  faltered 
out  some  hesitating  words  of  apology,  he  seized  her  hand, 
and  pressing  it  tenderly,  "Prettiest  of  lasses,"  said  he, —  and 
while  he  spoke  he  gazed  on  her  with  undisguised  admiration, 
—  "a  man  who  has  travelled  on  foot  all  day,  through  the 
ugliest  country  within  the  three  seas,  is  sufficiently  refreshed 
at  night  by  the  sight  of  so  fair  a  face." 

Alice  hastily  withdrew  her  hand  and  went  and  seated  her- 
self in  a  corner  of  the  room,  whence  she  continued  to  look  at 
the  stranger  with  her  usual  vacant  gaze,  but  with  a  half -smile 
upon  her  rosy  lips. 

Alice's  father  looked  hard,  first  at  one,  then  at  the  other, 

"Eat,  sir,"  said  he,  with  a  sort  of  chuckle,  "and  no  fine 
words;  poor  Alice  is  honest,  as  you  said  just  now." 

"To  be  sure,"  answered  the  traveller,  employing  with  great 
zeal  a  set  of  strong,  even,  and  dazzling  teeth  at  the  tough 
crusts, —  "to  be  sure  she  is.  I  did  not  mean  to  offend  you; 
but  the  fact  is  that  I  am  half  a  foreigner;  and  abroad,  you 
know,  one  may  say  a  civil  thing  to  a  pretty  girl  without  hurt- 
ing her  feelings  or  her  father's  either." 

"Half  a  foreigner!  why,  you  talk  English  as  well  as  I  do," 
said  the  host,  whose  intonation  and  words  were  on  the  whole 
a  little  above  his  station. 

The  stranger  smiled.     "Thank  you   for  the  compliment," 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  7 

said  he.  "  What  I  meant  was,  that  I  have  been  a  great  deal 
abroad;  in  fact,  I  have  just  returned  from  Germany.  But  I 
am  English  born." 

"And  going  home?" 

"Yes." 

"Far  from  hence?" 

"About  thirty  miles,  I  believe." 

"You  are  young,  sir,  to  be  alone." 

The  traveller  made  no  answer,  but  finished  his  uninviting 
repast  and  drew  his  chair  again  to  the  fire.  He  then  thought 
he  had  sufiiciently  ministered  to  his  host's  curiosity  to  be 
entitled  to  the  gratification  of  his  own. 

"You  work  at  the  factories,  I  suppose?"  said  he. 

"I  do,  sir.     Bad  times." 

"And  your  pretty  daughter?" 

"Minds  the  house." 

"Have  you  no  other  children? " 

"No;  one  mouth  besides  my  own  is  as  much  as  I  can  feed, 
and  that  scarcely.  But  you  would  like  to  rest  now;  you  can 
have  my  bed,  sir,  —  I  can  sleep  here." 

"By  no  means,"  said  the  stranger,  quickly;  "just  put  a 
few  more  coals  on  the  fire,  and  leave  me  to  make  myself 
comfortable." 

The  man  rose,  and  did  not  press  his  offer,  but  left  the  room 
for  a  supply  of  fuel.     Alice  remained  in  her  corner. 

"Sweetheart,"  said  the  traveller,  looking  round  and  satisfy- 
ing himself  that  they  were  alone,  "  I  should  sleep  well  if  I 
could  get  one  kiss  from  those  coral  lips." 

Alice  hid  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"Do  I  vex  you?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir." 

At  this  assurance  the  traveller  rose,  and  approached  Alice 
softly.  He  drew  away  her  hands  from  her  face,  when  she 
said  gently,  "Have  you  much  money  about  you?" 

"  Oh,  the  mercenary  baggage !  "  said  the  traveller  to  him- 
self; and  then  replied  aloud,  "Why,  pretty  one?  Do  you  sell 
your  kisses  so  high,  then?" 

Alice  frowned  and  tossed  the  hair  from  her  brow.     "If  you 


8  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

have  money,"  she  said,  in  a  whisper,  "don't  say  so  to  Father. 
Don't  sleep  if  you  can  help  it.  I  'm  afraid  —  hush,  he 
comes ! " 

The  young  man  returned  to  his  seat  with  an  altered  manner; 
and  as  his  host  entered,  he  for  the  first  time  surveyed  him 
closely.  The  imperfect  glimmer  of  the  half -dying  and  single 
candle  threw  into  strong  lights  and  shades  the  marked,  rugged, 
and  ferocious  features  of  the  cottager;  and  the  eye  of  the 
traveller,  glancing  from  the  face  to  the  limbs  and  frame,  saw 
that  whatever  of  violence  the  mind  might  design  the  body 
might  well  execute. 

The  traveller  sank  into  a  gloomy  revery.  The  wind  howled, 
the  rain  beat;  through  the  casement  shone  no  solitary  star, 
—  all  was  dark  and  sombre.  Should  he  proceed  alone,  might 
he  not  suffer  a  greater  danger  upon  that  wide  and  desert  moor? 
Might  not  the  host  follow,  assault  him  in  the  dark?  He  had 
no  weapon  save  a  stick;  but  within  he  had  at  least  a  rude 
resource  in  the  large  kitchen  poker  that  was  beside  him.  At 
all  events  it  would  be  better  to  wait  for  the  present;  he  might 
at  any  time,  when  alone,  withdraw  the  bolt  from  the  door, 
and  slip  out  unobserved. 

Such  was  the  fruit  of  his  meditations  while  his  host  plied 
the  fire. 

"You  will  sleep  sound  to-night,"  said  his  entertainer, 
smiling. 

"  Humph !  Why,  I  am  over-fatigued.  I  dare  say  it  will  be 
an  hour  or  two  before  I  fall  asleep;  but  when  I  once  am 
asleep,  I  sleep  like  a  rock." 

"Come,  Alice,"  said  her  father,  "let  us  leave  the  gentle- 
man.    Good-night,  sir." 

"Good-night,  good-night,"  returned  the  traveller,  yawning. 

The  father  and  daughter  disappeared  through  a  door  in  the 
corner  of  the  room.  The  guest  heard  them  ascend  the  creak- 
ing stairs ;  all  was  still. 

"Fool  that  I  am,"  said  the  traveller  to  himself;  "will 
nothing  teach  me  that  I  am  no  longer  a  student  at  Gottingen, 
or  cure  me  of  these  pedestrian  adventures?  Had  it  not  been 
for  that  girl's  big  blue  eyes  I  should  be  safe  at by  this 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  9 

time;  if,  indeed,  the  grim  father  had  not  murdered  me  by  the 
road.  However,  we'll  balk  him  yet;  another  half-hour, 
and  I  am  on  the  moor.  We  must  give  him  time ;  and  in  the 
mean  while  here  is  the  poker.  At  the  worst  it  is  but  one  to 
one;  but  the  churl  is  strongly  built." 

Although  the  traveller  thus  endeavoured  to  cheer  his  cour- 
age, his  heart  beat  more  loudly  than  its  wont.  He  kept  his 
eyes  stationed  on  the  door  by  which  the  cottagers  had  van- 
ished, and  his  hand  on  the  massive  poker. 

While  the  stranger  was  thus  employed  below,  Alice,  instead 
of  turning  to  her  own  narrow  cell,  went  into  her  father's  room. 

The  cottager  was  seated  at  the  foot  of  his  bed  muttering  to 
himself,  and  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground. 

The  girl  stood  before  him,  gazing  on  his  face,  and  with  her 
arms  lightly  crossed  above  her  bosom. 

"It  must  be  worth  twenty  guineas,"  said  the  host,  abruptly 
to  himself. 

"  What  is  it  to  you,  Father,  what  the  gentleman's  watch  is 
worth?" 

The  man  started. 

"You  mean,"  continued  Alice,  qiiietly,  "you  mean  to  do 
some  injury  to  that  young  man ;  but  you  shall  not. " 

The  cottager's  face  grew  black  as  night.  "  How, "  he  began 
in  a  loud  voice,  but  suddenly  dropped  the  tone  into  a  deep 
growl, —  "how  dare  you  talk  to  me  so!  Go  to  bed;  go  to 
bed." 

"Ko,  Father." 

"No?" 

"I  will  not  stir  from  this  room  until  daybreak." 

"We  will  soon  see  that,"  said  the  man,  with  an  oath. 

"Touch  me,  and  I  will  alarm  the  gentleman  and  tell  him 
that  —  " 

"What?" 

The  girl  approached  her  father,  placed  her  lips  to  his  ear, 
and  whispered,  "That  you  intend  to  murder  him." 

The  cottager's  frame  trembled  from  head  to  foot;  he  shut 
his  eyes  and  gasped  painfully  for  breath.  "Alice,"  said  he 
gently,  after  a  pause, —  "Alice,  we  are  often  nearly  starving." 


10  ERXEST  MALTRAVERS. 

"  /  am,  —  you  never !  " 

"  Wretch !  yes,  if  I  do  drink  too  much  one  day,  I  pinch  for 
it  the  next.  But  go  to  bed,  I  say ;  I  mean  no  harm  to  the 
young  man.  Think  you  I  would  twist  myself  a  rope?  Xo, 
no ;  go  along,  go  along !  " 

Alice's  face,  which  had  before  been  earnest  and  almost  in- 
telligent, now  relapsed  into  its  wonted  vacant  stare. 

"To  be  sure.  Father,  they  would  hang  you  if  3'ou  cut  his 
throat.  Don't  forget  that.  Good-night;  "  and  so  saying,  she 
walked  to  her  own  opposite  chamber. 

Left  alone,  the  host  pressed  his  hand  tightly  to  his  fore- 
head and  remained  motionless  for  nearly  half  an  hour. 

"If  that  cursed  girl  would  but  sleep,"  he  muttered  at  last, 
turning  round,  "  it  might  be  done  at  once.  And  there  's  the 
pond  behind,  as  deep  as  a  well ;  and  I  might  say  at  daybreak 
that  the  boy  had  bolted.  He  seems  quite  a  stranger  here, — 
nobody  '11  miss  him.  He  must  have  plenty  of  blunt  to  give 
half-a-guinea  to  a  guide  across  a  common !  I  want  money, 
and  I  won't  work, —  if  I  can  help  it,  at  least." 

While  he  thus  soliloquized,  the  air  seemed  to  oppress  him; 
he  opened  the  window,  he  leaned  out, — the  rain  beat  upon 
him.  He  closed  the  window  with  an  oath,  took  off  his  shoes, 
stole  to  the  threshold,  and  by  the  candle,  which  he  shaded 
with  his  hand,  surveyed  the  opposite  door.  It  was  closed. 
He  then  bent  anxiously  forward  and  listened. 

"All's  quiet,"  thought  he;  "perhaps  he  sleeps  already.  I 
will  steal  down.  If  Jack  Walters  would  but  come  to-night, 
the  job  would  be  done  charmingly. " 

With  that  he  crept  gently  down  the  stairs.  In  a  corner 
at  the  foot  of  the  staircase  lay  sundry  matters,  a  few  fagots, 
and  a  cleaver.  He  caught  up  the  last.  "Aha!  "  he  muttered, 
"and  there's  the  sledge-hammer  somewhere  for  Walters." 
Leaning  himself  against  the  door,  he  then  applied  his  eye  to 
a  chink  which  admitted  a  dim  view  of  the  room  within, 
lighted  fitfully  by  the  fire. 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  11 


CHAPTER   II. 

"What  have  we  here  ■? 
A  carrion  death  ! 

Mercliant  of  Venice,  Act  ii.  sc.  7. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  the  stranger  deemed  it  advisable 
to  commence  his  retreat.  The  slight  and  suppressed  sound 
of  voices,  which  at  first  he  had  heard  above  in  the  conversa- 
tion of  the  father  and  child,  had  died  away.  The  stillness  at 
once  encouraged  and  warned  him.  He  stole  to  the  front  door, 
softly  undid  the  bolt,  and  found  the  door  locked  and  the  key 
missing.  He  had  not  observed  that  during  his  repast,  and 
ere  his  suspicions  had  been  aroused,  his  host,  in  replaciug  the 
bar  and  relocking  the  entrance,  had  abstracted  the  key.  His 
fears  were  now  confirmed.  His  next  thought  was  the  win- 
dow: the  shutter  only  protected  it  half  way,  and  was  easily 
removed;  but  the  aperture  of  the  lattice,  which  only  opened 
in  part,  like  most  cottage  casements,  was  far  too  small  to  ad- 
mit his  person.  His  only  means  of  escape  was  in  breaking 
the  whole  window, —  a  matter  not  to  be  effected  without 
noise,   and  consequent  risk. 

He  paused  in  despair.  He  was  naturally  of  a  strong-nerved 
and  gallant  temperament,  nor  unaccustomed  to  those  perils  of 
life  and  limb  which  German  students  delight  to  brave;  but 
his  heart  wellnigh  failed  him  at  that  moment.  The  silence 
became  distinct  and  burdensome  to  him,  and  a  chill  moisture 
gathered  to  his  brow.  While  he  stood  irresolute  and  in  sus- 
pense, striving  to  collect  his  thoughts,  his  ear,  preternatural ly 
sharpened  by  fear,  caught  the  faint,  muffled  sound  of  creep- 
ing footsteps, —  he  heard  the  stairs  creak.  The  sound  broke 
the  spell.  The  previous  vague  apprehension  gave  way  when 
the  danger  became  actually  at  hand.  His  presence  of  mind 
returned  at  once;  he  went  back  quickly  to  the  fireplace, 
seized  the  poker,   and  began  stirring  the  fire  and  coughing 


12  ERXEST  MALTR AVERS. 

loud,    and   indicated   as  vigorously  as  possible  tliat  he  was 
"wide  awake. 

He  felt  tliat  he  was  watched;  he  felt  that  he  was  mo- 
mently in  peril;  he  felt  that  the  appearance  of  slumber  would 
be  the  signal  for  a  mortal  conflict.  Time  passed,  —  all  re- 
mained silent;  nearly  half  an  hour  had  elapsed  since  he  had 
heard  the  steps  upon  the  stairs.  His  situation  began  to  prey 
upon  his  nerves, —  it  irritated  them;  it  became  intolerable. 
It  was  not  now  fear  that  he  experienced,  it  was  the  over- 
wrought sense  of  mortal  enmity, — the  consciousness  that  a 
man  may  feel  who  knows  that  the  eye  of  a  tiger  is  on  him, 
and  who,  while  in  suspense  he  has  regained  his  courage,  fore- 
sees that  sooner  or  later  the  spring  must  come;  the  suspense 
itself  becomes  an  agony,  and  he  desires  to  expedite  the  deadly 
struggle  he  cannot  shun. 

Utterly  incapable  any  longer  to  bear  his  own  sensations, 
the  traveller  rose  at  last,  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  fatal  door, 
and  was  about  to  cry  aloud  to  the  listener  to  enter,  when  he 
heard  a  slight  tap  at  the  window;  it  was  twice  repeated,  and 
at  the  third  time  a  low  voice  pronounced  the  name  of  Darvil, 
It  was  clear,  then,  that  accomplices  had  arrived;  it  was  no 
longer  against  one  man  that  he  would  have  to  contend.  He 
drew  his  breath  hard,  and  listened  with  throbbing  ears.  He 
heard  steps  without  upon  the  plashing  soil;  they  retired, —  all 
was  still. 

He  paused  a  few  minutes,  and  walked  deliberately  and 
firmly  to  the  inner  door,  at  which  he  fancied  his  host  sta- 
tioned; with  a  steady  hand  he  attempted  to  open  the  door:  it 
was  fastened  on  the  opposite  side.  "  So !  "  said  he,  bitterly, 
and  grinding  his  teeth,  "I  must  die  like  a  rat  in  a  cage. 
Well,  I '11  die  biting." 

He  returned  to  his  former  post,  drew  himself  up  to  his  full 
height,  and  stood  grasping  his  homely  weapon,  prepared  for 
the  worst,  and  not  altogether  undated  with  a  proud  con- 
sciousness of  his  own  natural  advantages  of  activity,  stature, 
strength,  and  daring.  Minutes  rolled  on;  the  silence  was 
broken  by  some  one  at  the  inner  door;  he  heard  the  bolt 
gently  withdrawn.     He  raised  his  weapon  with  both  hands. 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  13 

and  started  to  find  the  intruder  was  only  Alice.  She  came  in 
with  bare  feet  and  pale  as  marble,  her  finger  on  her  lips. 

She  approached,  she  touched  him. 

"They  are  in  the  shed  behind,"  she  whispered,  "looking 
for  the  sledge-hammer;  they  mean  to  murder  you.  Get  you 
gone,  quick !  " 

"How?     The  door  is  locked." 

"Stay!     I  have  taken  the  key  from  his  room." 

She  gained  the  door,  applied  the  key;  the  door  yielded. 
The  traveller  threw  his  knapsack  once  more  over  his  shoulder, 
and  made  but  one  stride  to  the  threshold.  The  girl  stopped 
him.  " Don't  say  anything  about  it;  he  is  my  father, — they 
would  hang  him." 

"iSTo,  no.  But  you  are  safe,  I  trust?  Depend  on  my  grati- 
tude.    I  shall  be  at to-morrow, —  the  best  inn;  seek  me 

if  you  can.     Which  way  now?  " 

"Keep  to  the  left." 

The  stranger  was  already  several  paces  distant;  through 
the  darkness  and  in  the  midst  of  the  rain  he  fled  on,  with  the 
speed  of  youth.  The  girl  lingered  an  instant,  sighed,  then 
laughed  aloud;  closed  and  re-barred  the  door,  and  was  creep- 
ing back,  when  from  the  inner  entrance  advanced  the  grim 
father  and  another  man,  of  broad,  short,  sinewy  frame,  his 
arms  bare,  and  wielding  a  large  hammer. 

"How?"  asked  the  host.  "Alice  here,  and —  Hell  and 
the  devil!  have  you  let  him  go?" 

"I  told  you  that  you  should  not  harm  him." 

With  a  violent  oath  the  ruffian  struck  his  daughter  to  the 
ground,  sprang  over  her  body,  unbarred  the  door,  and,  accom- 
panied by  his  comrade,  set  off  in  vague  pursuit  of  his  in- 
tended victim. 


14  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 


CHAPTER   III. 

Yoc  knew,  none  so  well,  of  mj  daughter's  flight. 

Merchant  of  Venice,  Act  iii.  sc.  1. 

The  day  dawned.  It  was  a  mild,  damp,  hazy  morning;  the 
sod  sank  deep  beneath  the  foot,  the  roads  were  heavy  with 
mire,  and  the  rain  of  the  past  night  lay  here  and  there  in 
broad,  shallow  pools.  Towards  the  town,  wagons,  carts, 
pedestrian  groups  were  already  moving;  and  now  and  then 
you  caught  the  sharp  horn  of  some  early  coach,  wheeling  its 
be-cloaked  outside  and  be-nightcapped  inside  passengers  along 
the  northern  thoroughfare. 

A  young  man  bounded  over  a  stile  into  the  road  just  oppo- 
site to  the  milestone  that  declared  him  to  be  one  mile  from 


"Thank  Heaven!"  he  said  almost  aloud;  "after  spending 
the  night  wandering  about  morasses  like  a  will-o'-the-wisp,  I 
approach  a  town  at  last.  Thank  Heaven  again,  and  for  all 
its  mercies  this  night!     I  breathe  freely.     I  am  safe." 

He  walked  on  somewhat  rapidly;  he  passed  a  slow  wagon, 
he  passed  a  group  of  mechanics,  he  passed  a  drove  of  sheep, 
and  now  he  saw  walking  leisurely  before  him  a  single  figure. 
It  was  a  girl,  in  a  worn  and  humble  dress,  who  seemed  to 
seek  her  weary  way  with  pain  and  languor.  He  was  about 
also  to  pass  her,  when  he  heard  a  low  cij.  He  turned, 
and  beheld  in  the  wayfarer  his  preserver  of  the  previous 
night. 

"Heavens!  is  it  indeed  you?     Can  I  believe  my  eyes?" 

"I  was  coming  to  seek  you,  sir,"  said  the  girl,  faintly.  "I 
too  have  escaped.  I  shall  never  go  back  to  Father;  I  have  no 
roof  to  cover  my  head  now." 

"Poor  child!  But  how  is  this?  Did  they  ill-use  you  for 
releasing  me?" 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  15 

"Father  knocked  me  down,  and  beat  rae  again  when  he 
came  back.  But  that  is  not  all,"  she  added,  in  a  very  low 
tone. 

"What  else?" 

The  girl  grew  red  and  white  by  turns.  She  set  her  teeth 
rigidly,  stopped  short,  and  then,  walking  on  quicker  than  be- 
fore, replied:  "It  don't  matter :  I  will  never  go  back, —  I'm 
alone  now.  What,  what  shall  I  do?"  and  she  wrung  her 
hands. 

The  traveller's  pity  was  deeply  moved.  "My  good  girl," 
said  he,  earnestly,  "you  have  saved  my  life,  and  I  am  not  un- 
grateful. Here,"  and  he  placed  some  gold  in  her  hand,  "get 
yourself  a  lodging,  food,  and  rest,  —  you  look  as  if  you 
wanted  them, — and  see  me  again  this  evening  when  it  is  dark 
and  we  can  talk  unobserved." 

The  girl  took  the  money  passively,  and  looked  up  in  his 
face  while  he  spoke ;  the  look  was  so  unsuspecting,  and  the 
whole  countenance  was  so  beautifully  modest  and  virgin-like, 
that  had  any  evil  passion  prompted  the  traveller's  last  words, 
it  must  have  fled  scared  and  abashed  as  he  met  the  gaze. 

"My  poor  girl,"  said  he,  embarrassed,  and  after  a  short 
pause,  "you  are  very  young,  and  very,  very  pretty.  In  this 
town  you  will  be  exposed  to  many  temptations:  take  care 
where  you  lodge.     You  have,  no  doubt,  friends  here?" 

"Friends?     What  are  friends?"  answered  Alice. 

"Have  you  no  relations, —  no  viother^s  kin  ."^  " 

"None." 

"Do  you  know  where  to  ask  shelter?" 

"No,  sir;  for  I  can't  go  where  Father  goes,  lest  he  should 
find  me  out." 

"  Well,  then,  seek  some  quiet  inn,  and  meet  me  this  even- 
ing just  here,  —  half  a  mile  from  the  town,  at  seven.  I  will 
try  and  think  of  something  for  you  in  the  mean  while.  But 
you  seem  tired, —  you  walk  with  pain;  perhaps  it  will  fatigue 
you  to  come, —  I  mean,  you  had  rather  perhaps  rest  another 
day." 

"Oh,  no,  no!  it  will  do  me  good  to  see  you  again,  sir." 

The  young  man's  eyes  met  hers,  and  hers  were  not  with- 


16  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

drawn;  their  soft  blue  was  suffused  with  tears, — they  pene- 
trated his  soul.  He  turned  away  hastily,  and  saw  that  they 
were  already  the  subject  of  curious  observation  to  the  various 
passengers  that  overtook  them.  "Don't  forget!"  he  whis- 
pered, and  strode  on  with  a  pace  that  soon  brought  him  to 
the  town. 

He  inquired  for  the  principal  hotel,  entered  it  with  an  air 
that  bespoke  that  nameless  consciousness  of  superiority  which 
belongs  to  those  accustomed  to  purchase  welcome  wherever 
welcome  is  bought  and  sold;  and  before  a  blazing  fire  and  no 
unsubstantial  breakfast,  forgot  all  the  terrors  of  the  past 
night,  or  rather  felt  rejoiced  to  think  he  had  added  a  new  and 
strange  hazard  to  the  catalogue  of  adventures  already  experi- 
enced by  Ernest  Maltravers. 


CHAPTEE   IV. 

Con  una  Dama  tenia 
Un  galan  conversacion.^ 

MoRATiN.  El  Te'alro  Espanol  (Num.  15). 

Maltravers  was  first  at  the  appointed  place.  His  charac- 
ter was  in  most  respects  singularly  energetic,  decided,  and 
premature  in  its  development ;  but  not  so  in  regard  to  women, 

—  with  them  he  was  the  creature  of  the  moment ;  and  driven 
to  and  fro  by  whatever  impulse  or  whatever  passion  caught 
the  caprice  of  a  wild,  roving,  and  all-poetical  imagination, 
Maltravers  was,  half  unconsciously,  a  poet, —  a  poet  of  action, 

—  and  woman  was  his  muse. 

He  had  formed  no  plan  of  conduct  towards  the  poor  girl  he 
was  to  meet;  he  meant  no  harm  to  her.  If  she  had  been  less 
handsome  he  would  have  been  equally  grateful,  and  her  dress 
and  youth  and  condition  would  equally  have  compelled  him 
to  select  the  hour  of  dusk  for  an  interview. 

1  "  With  a  dame  he  held  a  gallant  conversation.  " 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  17 

He  arrived  at  the  spot.  The  winter  night  had  already  de- 
scended; but  a  sharp  frost  had  set  in, — the  air  was  clear,  the 
stars  were  bright,  and  the  long  shadows  slept,  still  and  calm, 
along  the  broad  road  and  the  whitened  fields  beyond. 

He  walked  briskly  to  and  fro,  without  much  thought  of  the 
interview  or  its  object,  half  chanting  old  verses,  German  and 
English,  to  himself,  and  stopping  to  gaze  every  moment  at 
the  silent  stars. 

At  length  he  saw  Alice  approach;  she  came  up  to  him  tim- 
idly and  gently.  His  heart  beat  more  quickly ;  he  felt  that 
he  was  young,  and  alone  with  beauty.  "  Sweet  girl, "  he  said, 
with  involuntary  and  mechanical  compliment,  "  how  well  this 
light  becomes  you !  How  shall  I  thank  you  for  not  forgetting 
me?" 

Alice  surrendered  her  hand  to  his  without  a  struggle. 

"What  is  your  name?"  said  he,  bending  his  face  down  to 
hers. 

"Alice  Darvil." 

"And  your  terrible  father, —  is  he,  in  truth,  your  father? " 

"  Indeed,  he  is  my  father  and  mother  too !  " 

"What  made  you  suspect  his  intention  to  murder  me?  Has 
he  ever  attempted  the  like  crime?  " 

"  No ;  but  lately  he  has  often  talked  of  robbery.  He  is  very 
poor,  sir;  and  when  I  saw  his  eye,  and  when,  afterwards, 
while  your  back  was  turned,  he  took  the  key  from  the  door, 
I  felt  that  —  that  you  were  in  danger. " 

"Good  girl!  go  on." 

"I  told  him  so  when  we  went  upstairs.  I  did  not  know 
what  to  believe  when  he  said  he  would  not  hurt  you;  but  I 
stole  the  key  of  the  front  door,  which  he  had  thrown  on  the 
table,  and  went  to  my  room.  I  listened  at  my  door;  I  heard 
him  go  down  the  stairs,  —  he  stopped  there  for  some  time; 
and  I  watched  him  from  above.  The  place  where  he  was, 
opened  to  the  field  by  the  back  way.  After  some  time  I  heard 
a  voice  whisper  him, —  I  knew  the  voice;  and  then  they  both 
went  out  by  the  back  way.  So  I  stole  down,  and  went  out 
and  listened:  and  I  knew  the  other  man  was  John  Walters, 
—  I'm  afraid  of  hi7)i,  sir.     And  then  Walters  said,  says  he, 

2 


18  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

*I  will  get  the  hammer,  and,  sleep  or  wake,  we  '11  do  it.'  And 
Father  said,  'It's  in  the  shed.'  So  I  saw  there  was  no  time 
to  be  lost,  sir,  and  —  and —    But  you  know  all  the  rest." 

"Bvit  how  did  you  escape?" 

*'  Oh !  my  father,  after  talking  to  Walters,  came  to  my  room 
and  beat  and  —  and  —  frightened  me ;  and  when  he  was  gone 
to  bed,  I  put  on  my  clothes  and  stole  out, —  it  was  just  light; 
and  I  walked  on  till  I  met  you." 

"  Poor  child,  in  what  a  den  of  vice  you  have  been  brought 


up 


r » 


"  Anan,  sir  ?" 

"She  don't  understand  me.  — Have  you  been  taught  to  read 
and  write?" 

"Oh,  no!" 

"  But  I  suppose  you  have  been  taught,  at  least,  to  say  your 
catechism, —  and  you  pray  sometimes?" 

"I  have  prayed  to  Father  not  to  beat  me." 

"But  to  God?" 

"  God,  sir,—  what  is  that?  "  ^ 

Maltravers  drew  back,  shocked  and  appalled.  Premature 
philosopher  as  he  was,  this  depth  of  ignorance  perplexed  his 
wisdom.  He  had  read  all  the  disputes  of  schoolmen,  whether 
or  not  the  notion  of  a  Supreme  Being  is  innate ;  but  he  had 
never  before  been  brought  face  to  face  with  a  living  creature 
who  was  unconscious  of  a  God. 

After  a  pause  he  said:  "My  poor  girl,  we  misunderstand 
each  other.     You  know  that  there  is  a  God?  " 

"No,  sir." 

"  Did  no  one  ever  tell  you  who  made  the  stars  you  now  sur- 
vey,—  the  earth  on  which  you  tread?" 

"No." 

"  And  have  you  never  thought  about  it  yourself?  " 

^  This  ignorance  —  indeed,  the  whole  sketch  of  Alice  —  is  from  the  life ; 
nor  is  snch  ignorance,  accompanied  by  what  almost  seems  an  instinctive  or 
iutnitive  notion  of  right  or  wrong,  ver\'  uncommon,  as  onr  police  reports  can 
testify.  In  the  "Examiner"  for,  I  think,  the  year  1835,  will  be  fonnd  the 
case  of  a  yonng  girl,  ill-treated  by  her  father,  whose  answers  to  the  interroga- 
tories of  the  magistrate  are  very  similar  to  those  of  Alice  to  the  (iuestions  of 
Maltravers. 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  19 

"Why  should  I?  What  has  that  to  do  with  being  cold  and 
hungry?" 

Maltravers  looked  incredulous.  "  You  see  that  great  build- 
ing, with  the  spire  rising  in  the  starlight?  " 

"Yes,  sir,  sure." 

"What  is  it  called?" 

"Why,  a  church." 

"  Did  you  never  go  into  it?  " 

"No." 

"What  do  people  do  there?" 

"  Father  says  one  man  talks  nonsense,  and  the  other  folk 
listen  to  him." 

"  Your  father  is  —  No  matter.  Good  heavens !  what  shall 
I  do  with  this  unhappy  child?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  am  very  unhappy,"  said  Alice,  catching  at  the 
last  words ;  and  the  tears  rolled  silently  down  her  cheeks. 

Maltravers  never  was  more  touched  in  his  life.  Whatever 
thoughts  of  gallantry  might  have  entered  his  young  head,  had 
he  found  Alice  such  as  he  might  reasonably  have  expected,  he 
now  felt  that  there  was  a  kind  of  sanctity  in  her  ignorance; 
and  his  gratitude  and  kindly  sentiment  towards  her  took  al- 
most a  brotherly  aspect.  "You  know,  at  least,  what  school 
is?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  I  have  talked  with  girls  who  go  to  school." 

"Would  you  like  to  go  there  too?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir;  pray  not!" 

"What  should  you  like  to  do,  then?  Speak  out,  child,  I 
owe  you  so  much  that  1  should  be  too  happy  to  make  you 
comfortable  and  contented  in  your  own  way." 

"I  should  like  to  live  with  you,  sir."  MaltraA^ers  started, 
and  half  smiled  and  coloured.  But  looking  on  her  eyes, 
which  were  fixed  earnestly  on  his,  there  was  so  much  artless- 
ness  in  their  soft,  unconscious  gaze  that  he  saw  she  was 
wholly  ignorant  of  the  interpretation  that  might  be  put  upon 
so  candid  a  confession. 

I  have  said  that  IMaltravers  was  a  wild,  enthusiastic,  odd 
being, — he  was,  in  fact,  full  of  strange  German  romance  and 
metaphysical  speculations.     He  had  once  shut  himself  up  for 


20  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

months  to  study  astrology,  and  been  even  suspected  of  a  seri- 
ous hunt  after  the  philosopher's  stone;  another  time  he  had 
narrowly  escaped  with  life  and  liberty  from  a  frantic  conspir- 
acy of  the  young  republicans  of  his  University,  in  which,  be- 
ing bolder  and  madder  than  most  of  them,  he  had  been  an 
active  ringleader;  it  was,  indeed,  some  such  folly  that  had 
comj)elled  him  to  quit  Germany  sooner  than  himself  or  his 
parents  desired.  He  had  nothing  of  the  sober  Englishman 
about  him.  Whatever  was  strange  and  eccentric  had  an  irre- 
sistible charm  for  Ernest  Maltravers.  And  agreeably  to  this 
disposition,  he  now  revolved  an  idea  that  enchanted  his  mo- 
bile and  fantastic  philosophy.  He  himself  would  educate 
this  charming  girl ;  he  would  write  fair  and  heavenly  charac- 
ters upon  this  blank  page,  —  he  would  act  the  Saint-Preux  to 
this  Julie  of  Nature.  Alas !  he  did  not  think  of  the  result 
which  the  parallel  should  have  suggested.  At  that  age, 
Ernest  Maltravers  never  damped  the  ardour  of  an  experiment 
by  the  anticipation  of  consequences. 

"  So, "  he  said,  after  a  short  revery,  "  so  you  would  like  to 
live  with  me?  But,  Alice,  we  must  not  fall  in  love  with  each 
other." 

"I  don't  understand,  sir." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Maltravers,  a  little  disconcerted. 

"I  always  wished  to  go  into  service." 

"Ha!" 

"And  you  would  be  a  kind  master." 

Maltravers  was  half  disenchanted. 

"  No  very  flattering  preference, "  thought  he ;  "  so  much  the 
safer  for  us.  Well,  Alice,  it  shall  be  as  you  wish.  Are  you 
comfortable  where  you  are,  in  your  new  lodgings?  " 

"No." 

"Why,  they  do  not  insult  you?" 

"No;  but  they  make  a  noise,  and  I  like  to  be  quiet,  to 
think  of  you." 

The  young  philosopher  was  reconciled  again  to  his  scheme. 

"Well,  Alice,  go  back.  I  will  take  a  cottage  to-morrow, 
and  you  shall  be  my  servant,  and  I  will  teach  you  to  read  and 
write  and  say  your  prayers,  and  know  that  you  have  a  Eather 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  21 

above  who  loves  you  better  than  he  below.  Meet  me  again  at 
the  same  hour  to-morrow.  "Why  do  you  cry,  Alice?  Why  do 
you  cry?  " 

"  Because,  because, "  sobbed  the  girl,  "  I  am  so  happy,  and 
I  shall  live  with  you  and  see  you." 

"Go,  child, —  go,  child,"  said  Maltravers,  hastily;  and  he 
walked  away  with  a  quicker  pulse  than  became  his  new  char- 
acter of  master  and  preceptor. 

He  looked  back,  and  saw  the  girl  gazing  at  him;  he  waved 
his  hand,  and  she  moved  on  and  followed  him  slowly  back  to 
the  town. 

Maltravers,  though  not  an  elder  son,  was  the  heir  of  afflu- 
ent fortunes ;  he  enjoyed  a  munificent  allowance  that  sufficed 
for  the  whims  of  a  youth  who  had  learned  in  Germany  none 
of  the  extravagant  notions  common  to  young  Englishmen  of 
similar  birth  and  prospects.  He  was  a  spoiled  child,  with 
no  law  but  his  own  fancy;  his  return  home  was  not  expected; 
there  was  nothing  to  prevent  the  indulgence  of  his  new  ca- 
price. The  next  day  he  hired  a  cottage  in  the  neighbourhood, 
which  was  one  of  those  pretty  thatched  edifices,  with  ve- 
randas and  monthly  roses,  a  conservatory  and  a  lawn,  which 
justify  the  English  proverb  about  a  cottage  and  love.  It  had 
been  built  by  a  mercantile  bachelor  for  some  Fair  Eosamond, 
and  did  credit  to  his  taste.  An  old  woman,  let  with  the 
house,  was  to  cook  and  do  the  work;  Alice  was  but  a  nominal 
servant.  Neither  the  old  woman  nor  the  landlord  compre- 
hended the  platonic  intentions  of  the  young  stranger;  but  he 
paid  his  rent  in  advance,  and  they  were  not  particular.  He, 
however,  thought  it  prudent  to  conceal  his  name ;  it  was  one 
sure  to  be  known  in  a  town  not  very  distant  from  the  resi- 
dence of  his  father, —  a  wealthy  and  long-descended  country 
gentleman.  He  adopted,  therefore,  the  common  name  of 
Butler,  —  which,  indeed,  belonged  to  one  of  his  maternal  con- 
nections ;  and  by  that  name  alone  was  he  known  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood and  to  Alice.  From  her  he  would  not  have  sought 
concealment;  but,  somehow  or  other,  no  occasion  ever  pre- 
sented itself  to  induce  him  to  talk  much  to  her  of  his  parent- 
age or  birth. 


22  ERXEST  MALTRAVERS. 


CHAPTER   V. 
Thought  would  destroy  their  paradise.  —  Gray. 

Maltravebs  found  Alice  as  docile  a  pupil  as  any  reasona- 
ble preceptor  might  have  desired.  But  still,  reading  and 
writing,  they  are  very  uninteresting  elements.  Had  the 
ground-work  been  laid,  it  might  have  been  delightful  to  raise 
the  fairy  palace  of  knowledge;  but  the  digging  the  founda- 
tions and  the  constructing  the  cellars  is  weary  labour.  Per- 
haps he  felt  it  so ;  for  in  a  few  days  Alice  was  handed  over  to 
the  very  oldest  and  ugliest  writing-master  that  the  neighbour- 
ing town  could  afford.  The  poor  girl  at  first  wept  much  at  the 
exchange;  but  the  grave  remonstrances  and  solemn  exhorta- 
tions of  Maltravers  reconciled  her  at  last,  and  she  promised 
to  work  hard  and  pay  every  attention  to  her  lessons.  I  am 
not  sure,  however,  that  it  was  the  tedium  of  the  work  that 
deterred  the  idealist, —  perhaps  he  felt  its  danger, —  and  at 
the  bottom  of  his  sparkling  dreams  and  brilliant  follies  lay  a 
sound,  generous,  and  noble  heart.  He  was  fond  of  pleasure, 
and  had  been  already  the  darling  of  the  sentimental  German 
ladies.  But  he  was  too  young  and  too  vivid  and  too  roman- 
tic to  be  what  is  called  a  sensualist.  He  could  not  look  upon 
a  fair  face  and  a  guileless  smile  and  all  the  ineffable  symme- 
try of  a  woman's  shape  with  the  eye  of  a  man  buying  cattle 
for  base  uses.  He  very  easily  fell  in  love,  —  or  fancied  he 
did, —  it  is  true;  but  then  he  could  not  separate  desire  from 
fancy,  or  calculate  the  game  of  passion  without  bringing  the 
heart  or  the  imagination  into  the  matter.  And  though  Alice 
was  very  pretty  and  very  engaging,  he  was  not  yet  in  love 
with  her,  and  he  had  no  intention  of  becoming  so. 

He  felt  the  evening  somewhat  long  when,  for  the  first  time, 
Alice  discontinued  her  usual  lesson;  but  Maltravers  had 
abundant  resources  in  himself.     He  placed  Shakspeare  and 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  23 

Schiller  on  his  table,  and  lighted  his  German  meerschaum; 
he  read  till  he  became  inspired,  and  then  he  wrote;  and  when 
he  had  composed  a  few  stanzas  he  was  not  contented  till  he 
had  set  them  to  music  and  tried  their  melody  with  his  v(5ice, 

—  for  he  had  all  the  passion  of  a  German  for  song  and  music, 
that  wild  Maltravers !  and  his  voice  was  sweet,  his  taste  con- 
summate, his  science  profound.  As  the  sun  puts  out  a  star, 
so  the  full  blaze  of  his  imagination,  fairly  kindled,  extin- 
guished for  the  time  his  fairy  fancy  for  his  beautiful  pupil. 

It  was  late  that  night  when  Maltravers  went  to  bed;  and 
as  he  passed  through  the  narrow  corridor  that  led  to  his 
chamber  he  heard  a  light  step  flying  before  him,  and  caught 
the  glimpse  of  a  female  figure  escaping  through  a  distant 
door.  "The  silly  child!"  thought  he,  at  once  divining  the 
cause;  "she  has  been  listening  to  my  singing.  I  shall  scold 
her."     But  he  forgot  that  resolution. 

The  next  day,  and  the  next,  and  many  days  passed,  and 
Maltravers  saw  but  little  of  the  pupil  for  whose  sake  he  had 
shut  himself  up  in  a  country  cottage  in  the  depth  of  winter. 
Still,  he  did  not  repent  his  purpose,  nor  was  he  in  the  least 
tired  of  his  seclusion;  he  would  not  inspect  Alice's  progress, 
for  he  was  certain  he  should  be  dissatisfied  with  its  slowness, 

—  and  people,  however  handsome,  cannot  learn  to  read  and 
write  in  a  day.  But  he  amused  himself,  notwithstanding. 
He  was  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  be  alone  with  his  own 
thoughts,  for  he  was  at  one  of  those  periodical  epochs  of  life 
■when  we  like  to  pause  and  breathe  a  while,  in  brief  respite 
from  that  methodical  race  in  which  "we  run  to  the  grave.  He 
wished  to  re-collect  the  stores  of  his  past  experience,  and  re- 
pose on  his  own  mind,  before  he  started  afresh  upon  the  ac- 
tive world.  The  weather  was  cold  and  inclement;  but  Ernest 
Maltravers  was  a  hardy  lover  of  Nature,  and  neither  snow 
nor  frost  could  detain  him  from  his  daily  rambles.  So  about 
noon  he  regularly  threw  aside  books  and  papers,  took  his  hat 
and  staff,  and  went  whistling  or  humming  his  favourite  airs 
through  the  dreary  streets,  or  along  the  bleak  waters,  or 
amidst  the  leafless  woods,  just  as  the  humour  seized  him;  for 
he  was  not  an  Edwin  or  Harold,  who  reserved  speculation 


24  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

only  for  lonely  brooks  and  pastoral  hills.  Maltravers  de- 
lighted to  contemplate  Nature  in  men,  as  well  as  in  sheep  or 
trees.  The  humblest  alley  in  a  crowded  town  had  something 
poetical  for  him ;  he  was  ever  ready  to  mix  in  a  crowd,  if  it 
were  only  gathered  round  a  barrel-organ  or  a  dog-fight,  and 
listen  to  all  that  was  said,  and  notice  all  that  was  done.  And 
this  I  take  to  be  the  true  poetical  temperament  essential  to 
every  artist  who  aspires  to  be  something  more  than  a  scene- 
painter.  But  above  all  things,  he  was  most  interested  in  any 
display  of  human  passions  or  affections ;  he  loved  to  see  the 
true  colours  of  the  heart  where  they  are  most  transparent, — 
in  the  uneducated  and  poor,  —  for  he  was  something  of  an  op- 
timist, and  had  a  hearty  faith  in  the  loveliness  of  our  nature. 
Perhaps  indeed  he  owed  much  of  the  insight  into  and  mas- 
tery over  character  that  he  was  afterwards  considered  to  dis- 
play, to  his  disbelief  that  there  is  any  wickedness  so  dark  as 
not  to  be  susceptible  of  the  light  in  some  place  or  another. 
But  Maltravers  had  his  fits  of  unsociability,  and  then  noth- 
ing but  the  most  solitary  scenes  delighted  him.  Winter  or 
summer,  barren  waste  or  prodigal  verdure,  all  had  beauty  in 
his  eyes ;  for  their  beauty  lay  in  his  own  soul,  through  which 
he  beheld  them.  From  these  walks  he  would  return  home  at 
dusk,  take  his  simple  meal,  rhyme  or  read  away  the  long 
evenings  with  such  alternation  as  music  or  the  dreamy 
thoughts  of  a  young  man  with  gay  life  before  him  could 
afford.  Happy  Maltravers!  youth  and  genius  have  luxuries 
all  the  Eothschilds  cannot  purchase.  And  yet,  Maltravers, 
you  are  ambitious;  life  moves  too  slowly  for  you;  you  would 
push  on  the  wheels  of  the  clock!  Fool,  brilliant  fool  I  you 
are  eighteen,  and  a  poet!  What  more  can  you  desire?  Bid 
Time  stop  forever! 

One  morning  Ernest  rose  earlier  than  his  wont,  and  saun- 
tered carelessly  through  the  conservatory  which  adjoined  his 
sitting-room,  observing  the  plants  with  placid  curiosity  (for 
besides  being  a  little  of  a  botanist,  he  had  odd,  visionary  no- 
tions about  the  life  of  plants,  and  he  saw  in  them  a  hundred 
mysteries  which  the  herbalists  do  not  teach  us),  when  he 
heard  a  low  and  very  musical  voice  singing  at  a  little  distance. 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  25 

He  listened,  and  recognized  with  surprise  words  of  his  ov,-n 
which  he  had  lately  set  to  music,  and  was  sufficiently  pleased 
with  to  sing  nightly. 

When  the  song  ended,  Maltravers  stole  softly  through  the 
conservatory,  and  as  he  opened  the  door  which  led  into  the 
garden,  he  saAv  at  the  open  window  of  a  little  room  which  was 
apportioned  to  Alice,  and  jutted  out  from  the  building  in  the 
fanciful  irregularity  common  to  ornamental  cottages,  the  form 
of  his  discarded  pupil.  She  did  not  observe  him,  and  it  was 
not  till  he  twice  called  her  by  name  that  she  started  from  her 
thoughtful  and  melancholy  posture. 

"Alice,"  said  he,  gently,  "put  on  your  bonnet  and  walk 
with  me  in  the  garden.  You  look  pale,  child;  the  fresh  air 
will  do  you  good." 

Alice  coloured  and  smiled,  and  in  a  few  moments  was  by 
his  side.  Maltravers,  meanwhile,  had  gone  in  and  lighted 
his  meerschaum;  for  it  was  his  great  inspirer  whenever  his 
thoughts  were  perplexed  or  he  felt  his  usual  fluency  likely  to 
fail  him,  and  such  was  the  case  now.  With  this  faithful  ally 
he  awaited  Alice  in  the  little  walk  that  circled  the  lawn, 
amidst  shrubs  and  evergreens. 

"Alice,"  said  he  after  a  pause;  but  he  stopped  short. 

Alice  looked  up  at  him  with  grave  respect. 

"Tush!"  said  Maltravers;  "perhaps  the  smoke  is  unpleas- 
ant to  you.     It  is  a  bad  habit  of  mine." 

"Ko,  sir,"  answered  Alice;  and  she  seemed  disappointed. 
Maltravers  paused,  and  picked  up  a  snowdrop. 

"It  is  pretty,"  he  said;  "do  you  love  flowers?" 

"Oh,  dearly,"  answered  Alice,  with  some  enthusiasm;  "I 
never  saw  many  till  I  came  here." 

"Xow  then  I  can  go  on,"  thought  Maltravers,  —  why,  I 
cannot  say,  for  I  do  not  see  the  sequitur ;  but  on  he  went  in 
medias  res.     "Alice,  you  sing  charmingly." 

"Ah,  sir,  you  —  you  —  "  She  stopped  abruptly,  and  trem- 
bled visibly. 

"Yes,  I  overheard  you,  Alice." 

"And  you  are  angry?" 

"I?    Heaven  forbid!     It  is  a  talent;  but  you  don't  know 


26  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

what  that  is, —  I  mean  it  is  an  excellent  thing  to  have  an  ear 
and  a  voice  and  a  heart  for  music;  and  you  have  all  three." 

He  paused,  for  he  felt  his  hand  touched;  Alice  suddenly- 
clasped  and  kissed  it.  Maltravers  thrilled  through  his  whole 
frame;  but  there  was  something  in  the  girl's  look  that  showed 
she  was  wholly  unaware  that  she  had  committed  an  unmaid- 
enly  or  forward  action. 

"  I  was  so  afraid  you  would  be  angry, "  she  said,  wiping  her 
eyes  as  she  dropped  his  hand;  "and  now  I  suppose  you  know 
all." 

"All?" 

"Yes, — how  I  listened  to  you  every  evening,  and  lay  awake 
the  whole  night  with  the  music  ringing  in  my  ears,  till  I 
tried  to  go  over  it  myself;  and  so  at  last  I  ventured  to  sing 
aloud.     I  like  that  much  better  than  learning  to  read." 

All  this  was  delightful  to  Maltravers,  —  the  girl  had  touched 
upon  one  of  his  weak  points;  however,  he  remained  silent. 
Alice  continued, — 

"And  noAv,  sir,  I  hope  you  will  let  me  come  and  sit  outside 
the  door  every  evening  and  hear  you;  I  will  make  no  noise,  I 
will  be  so  quiet." 

"What,  in  that  cold  corridor,  these  bitter  nights?" 

"  I  am  used  to  cold,  sir.  Father  would  not  let  me  have  a 
fire  when  he  was  not  at  home." 

"No,  Alice;  but  you  shall  come  into  the  room  while  I  play, 
and  I  will  give  you  a  lesson  or  two.  I  am  glad  you  have  so 
good  an  ear;  it  may  be  a  means  of  your  earning  your  own 
honest  livelihood  when  you  leave  me." 

"When  I —  But  I  never  intend  to  leave  you,  sir!"  said 
Alice,  beginning  fearfully  and  ending  calmly. 

Maltravers  had  recourse  to  the  meerschaum. 

Luckily,  perhaps,  at  this  time  they  were  joined  by  Mr. 
Simcox,  the  old  writing-master.  Alice  went  in  to  prepare 
her  books ;  but  Maltravers  laid  his  hand  upon  the  preceptor's 
shoulder. 

"You  have  a  quick  pupil,  I  hope,  sir?"  said  he. 

"  Oh !  very,  very,  Mr.  Butler ;  she  comes  on  famously.  She 
practises  a  great  deal  when  I  am  away,  and  I  do  my  best." 


ERXEST  MALTRAVERS.  27 

"And,"  asked  Maltravers,  in  a  grave  tone,  "have  you  suc- 
ceeded in  instilling  into  the  poor  child's  mind  some  of  those 
more  sacred  notions  of  which  I  spoke  to  you  at  our  first 
meeting?  " 

"Why,  sir,  she  was  indeed  quite  a  heathen, —  quite  a  Ma- 
hometan, I  may  say;  but  she  is  a  little  better  novv^." 

"What  have  you  taught  her?  " 

"That  God  made  her." 

"That  is  a  great  step." 

"And  that  he  loves  good  girls  and  will  watch  over  them." 

"  Bravo !     You  beat  Plato. " 

"No,  sir,  I  never  beat  any  one,  except  little  Jack  Turner; 
but  he  is  a  dunce." 

"Bah!     Wliat  else  do  you  teach  her?" 

''  That  the  devil  runs  away  with  bad  girls,  and  —  " 

"Stop  there,  Mr.  Sinicox.  Never  mind  the  devil  yet  a 
while.  Let  her  first  learn  to  do  good,  that  God  may  love  her; 
the  rest  will  follow.  I  would  rather  make  people  religious 
through  their  best  feelings  than  their  worst, —  through  their 
gratitude  and  affections,  rather  than  their  fears  and  calcula- 
tions of  risk  and  punishment." 

Mr.  Simcox  stared. 

"Does  she  say  her  prayers?" 

"I  have  taught  her  a  short  one." 

"Did  she  learn  it  readily?" 

"  Lord  love  her,  yes !  When  I  told  her  she  ought  to  pray 
to  God  to  bless  her  benefactor,  she  would  not  rest  till  I  had 
repeated  a  prayer  out  of  our  Sunday-school  book,  and  she  got 
it  by  heart  at  once." 

"Enough,  Mr.  Simcox;  I  will  not  detain  you  longer." 

Forgetful  of  his  untasted  breakfast,  Maltravers  continued 
his  meerschaum  and  his  reflections :  he  did  not  cease  till  he 
had  convinced  himself  that  he  was  but  doing  his  duty  to  Alice 
by  teaching  her  to  cultivate  the  charming  talent  she  evidently 
possessed,  and  through  which  she  might  secure  her  own  inde- 
pendence. He  fancied  that  he  should  thus  relieve  himself  of 
a  charge  and  responsibility  which  often  perplexed  him.  Alice 
would  leave  him,  enabled  to  walk  the  world  in  an  honest 


28  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

professional  path.  It  was  an  excellent  idea.  "But  there  is 
danger,"  whispered  Conscience.  "Ay,"  answered  Philosophy 
and  Pride,  those  wise  dupes  that  are  always  so  solemn  and  al- 
ways so  taken  in;   "but  what  is  virtue  without  trial?" 

And  now  every  evening  when  the  windows  were  closed  and 
the  hearth  burned  clear,  while  the  winds  stormed  and  the  rain 
beat  without,  a  lithe  and  lovely  shape  hovered  about  the  stu- 
dent's chamber,  and  his  wild  songs  were  sung  by  a  voice 
which  Nature  had  made  even  sweeter  than  his  own. 

Alice's  talent  for  music  was  indeed  surprising;  enthusias- 
tic and  quick  as  he  himself  was  in  all  he  undertook,  Mal- 
travers  was  amazed  at  her  rapid  progress.  He  soon  taught 
her  to  play  by  ear;  and  Maltravers  could  -not  but  notice  that 
her  hand,  always  delicate  in  shape,  had  lost  the  rude  colour 
and  roughness  of  labour.  He  thought  of  that  pretty  hand 
more  often  than  he  ought  to  have  done,  and  guided  it  over 
the  keys  when  it  could  have  found  its  way  very  well  without 
him. 

On  coming  to  the  cottage  he  had  directed  the  old  servant  to 
provide  suitable  and  proper  clothes  for  Alice;  but  now  that 
she  was  admitted  "to  sit  with  the  gentleman,"  the  crone  had 
the  sense,  without  waiting  for  new  orders,  to  buy  the  "pretty 
young  woman "  garments,  still,  indeed,  simple,  but  of  better 
materials  and  less  rustic  fashion;  and  Alice's  redundant 
tresses  were  now  carefully  arranged  into  orderly  and  glossy 
curls,  and  even  the  texture  was  no  longer  the  same;  and  hap- 
piness and  health  bloomed  on  her  downy  cheeks  and  smiled 
from  the  dewy  lips,  which  never  quite  closed  over  the  fresh 
white  teeth,  except  when  she  Avas  sad, —  but  that  seemed 
never,  now  she  was  not  banished  from  Maltravers. 

To  say  nothing  of  the  unusual  grace  and  delicacy  of  Alice's 
form  and  features,  there  is  nearly  always  something  of  Na- 
ture's own  gentility  in  very  young  women  (except,  indeed, 
when  they  get  together  and  fall  a  giggling) ;  it  shames  us 
men  to  see  how  much  sooner  they  are  polished  into  conven- 
tional shape  than  our  rough,  masculine  angles.  A  vulgar  boy 
requires  Heaven  knows  what  assiduity  to  move  three  steps, — 
I  do  not  say  like  a  gentleman,  but  like  a  body  that  has  a  soul 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  29 

in  it;  but  give  the  least  advantage  of  society  or  tuition  to  a 
peasant  girl,  and  a  hundred  to  one  but  she  will  glide  into 
refinement  before  the  boy  can  make  a  bow  without  upsetting 
the  table.  There  is  sentiment  in  all  women,  and  sentiment 
gives  delicacy  to  thought, and  tact  to  manner.  But  sentiment 
with  men  is  generally  acquired,  —  an  offspring  of  the  intel- 
lectual quality,  not,  as  with  the  other  sex,  of  the  moral. 

In  the  course  of  his  musical  and  vocal  lessons,  Maltravers 
gently  took  the  occasion  to  correct  poor  Alice's  frequent 
offences  against  grammar  and  accent:  and  her  memory  was 
prodigiously  quick  and  retentive.  The  very  tones  of  her 
voice  seemed  altered  in  the  ear  of  Maltravers ;  and,  somehow 
or  other,  the  time  came  when  he  was  no  longer  sensible  of 
the  difference  in  their  rank. 

The  old  woman-servant,  when  she  had  seen  how  it  would 
be  from  the  first,  and  taken  a  pride  in  her  own  prophecy  as 
she  ordered  Alice's  new  dresses,  was  a  much  better  philoso- 
pher than  Maltravers,  though  he  was  already  up  to  his  ears 
in  the  moonlit  abyss  of  Plato,  and  had  filled  a  dozen  com- 
monplace books  with  criticisms  on  Kant. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

YoTTNG  man,  I  fear  thy  blood  is  rosy  red, 
Thy  heart  is  soft. 

D'Aguilar  :  Fiesco,  Act  iii.  sc.  I. 

As  ediTcation  does  not  consist  in  reading  and  writing  only, 
so  Alice,  while  still  very  backward  in  those  elementary  arts, 
forestalled  some  of  their  maturest  results  in  her  intercourse 
with  ^Maltravers.  Before  the  inoculation  took  effect,  she 
caught  knowledge  in  the  natural  way;  for  the  refinement  of  a 
graceful  mind  and  a  happy  manner  is  very  contagious,  and 
Maltravers  was  encouraged  by  her  quickness  in  music  to  at- 


30  ERXEST   MALTRAVERS. 

tempt  such  instruction  in  other  studies  as  conversation  could 
afford.  It  is  a  better  school  than  parents  and  masters  think 
for;  there  was  a  time  when  all  information  was  given  orally; 
and  probably  the  Athenians  learned  more  from  hearing  Aris- 
totle than  we  do  from  reading  him.  It  was  a  delicious 
revival  of  Academe, —  in  the  walks,  or  beneath  the  rustic 
porticos  of  that  little  cottage, —  the  romantic  philosopher 
and  the  beautiful  disciple!  And  his  talk  was  much  like  that 
of  a  sage  of  the  early  world,  with  some  wistful  and  earnest 
savage  for  a  listener,  —  of  the  stars  and  their  courses;  of 
beasts  and  birds  and  fishes  and  plants  and  flowers,  the  wide 
family  of  Nature;  of  the  beneficence  and  power  of  God;  of 
the  mystic  and  spiritual  history  of  Man. 

Charmed  by  her  attention  and  docility,  Maltravers  at  length 
diverged  from  lore  into  poetry.  He  would  repeat  to  her  the 
simplest  and  most  natural  passages  he  could  remember  in  his 
favourite  poets;  he  would  himself  compose  verses  elaborately 
adapted  to  her  understanding :  she  liked  the  last  the  best,  and 
learned  them  the  easiest.  Never  had  young  poet  a  more  gra- 
cious inspiration,  and  never  did  this  inharmonious  world 
more  complacently  resolve  itself  into  soft  dreams,  as  if  to  hu- 
mour the  novitiate  of  the  victims  it  must  speedily  take  into 
its  joyless  priesthood.  And  Alice  had  now  quietly  and  in- 
sensibly carved  out  her  own  avocations, —  the  tenor  of  her 
service.  The  plants  in  the  conservatory  had  passed  under 
her  care,  and  no  one  else  was  privileged  to  touch  Maltravers 's 
books  or  arrange  the  sacred  litter  of  a  student's  apartment. 
When  he  came  down  in  the  morning,  or  returned  from  his 
walks,  everything  was  in  order,  yet,  by  a  kind  of  magic,  just 
as  he  wished  it,  —  the  flowers  he  loved  best,  bloomed,  fresh- 
gathered,  on  his  table;  the  very  position  of  the  large  chair, 
just  in  that  corner  by  the  fireplace,  whence,  on  entering  the 
room,  its  hospitable  arms  opened  with  the  most  cordial  air  of 
welcome,  bespoke  the  presiding  genius  of  a  woman;  and  then, 
precisely  as  the  clock  struck  eight,  Alice  entered,  so  pretty 
and  smiling  and  happy  looking  that  it  was  no  wonder  the  sin- 
gle hour  at  first  allotted  to  her  extended  into  three. 

Was  Alice  in  love  with  Maltravers?     She  certainly  did  not 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  31 

exhibit  the  symptoms  in  the  ordinary  way;  she  did  not  grow 
more  reserved  and  agitated  and  timid ;  there  was  no  worm  in 
the  bud  of  her  damask  cheek, —  nay,  though  from  the  first  she 
had  been  tolerably  bold,  she  was  more  free  and  confidential, 
more  at  her  ease  every  day;  in  fact,  she  never  for  a  moment 
suspected  that  she  ought  to  be  otherwise.  She  had  not  the 
conventional  and  sensitive  delicacy  of  girls  who,  whatever 
their  rank  of  life,  have  been  taught  that  there  is  a  mystery 
and  a  peril  in  love;  she  had  a  vague  idea  about  girls  going 
wrong,  but  she  did  not  know  that  love  had  anything  to  do 
with  it, —  on  the  contrary,  according  to  her  father,  it  had 
connection  with  money,  not  love;  all  that  she  felt  was  so 
natural  and  so  very  sinless.  Could  she  help  being  so  de- 
lighted to  listen  to  him,  and  so  grieved  to  depart?  What 
thus  she  felt,  she  expressed,  no  less  simply  and  no  less  guile- 
lessly; candour  sometimes  completely  blinded  and  misled 
him.  No,  she  could  not  be  in  love,  or  she  could  not  so 
frankly  own  that  she  loved  him, —  it  was  a  sisterly  and  grate- 
ful sentiment. 

"The  dear  girl, — I  am  rejoiced  to  think  so,"  said  Maltrav- 
ers  to  himself;  "I  knew  there  would  be  no  danger." 

"Was  he  not  in  love  himself?     The  reader  must  decide. 

"Alice,"  said  Maltravers  one  evening  after  a  long  pause  of 
thought  and  abstraction  on  his  side,  while  she  was  uncon- 
sciously practising  her  last  lesson  on  the  piano,  "Alice,  —  no, 
don't  turn  round,  sit  where  you  are,  but  listen  to  me, —  we 
cannot  live  always  in  this  way." 

Alice  was  instantly  disobedient;  she  did  turn  round,  and 
those  great  blue  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  own  with  such  anxiety 
and  alarm  that  he  had  no  resource  but  to  get  up  and  look 
round  for  the  meerschaum.  But  Alice,  who  divined  by  an 
instinct  his  lightest  vv-ish,  brought  it  to  him  while  he  was  yet 
hunting,  amidst  the  further  comers  of  the  room,  in  places 
where  it  was  certain  not  to  be.  There  it  was,  already  filled 
with  the  fragrant  Salonica,  glittering  with  the  gilt  pastille, 
which,  not  too  healthfully,  adulterates  the  seductive  weed 
with  odours  that  pacify  the  repugnant  censure  of  the  fastid- 
ious,—  for  Malti'avers  was  an  epicurean  even  in  his  worst 


32  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

habits ;  there  it  was,  I  say,  in  that  pretty  hand  which  he  had 
to  touch  as  he  took  it;  and  while  he  lit  the  weed,  he  had 
again  to  blush  and  shrink  beneath  those  great  blue  eyes. 

"Thank  you,  Alice,"  he  said;  "thank  you.  Do  sit  down, 
—  there, —  out  of  the  draught.  I  am  going  to  open  the  win- 
dow, the  night  is  so  lovely." 

He  opened  the  casement,  overgrown  with  creepers,  and  the 
moonlight  lay  fair  and  breathless  upon  the  smooth  lawn.  The 
calm  and  holiness  of  the  night  soothed  and  elevated  his 
thoughts;  he  had  cut  himself  off  from  the  eyes  of  Alice,  and 
he  proceeded  with  a  firm,  though  gentle  voice, — 

"My  dear  Alice,  we  cannot  always  live  together  in  this 
way;  you  are  now  wise  enough  to  understand  me,  so  listen 
patiently.  A  young  woman  never  wants  a  fortune  so  long  as 
she  has  a  good  character;  she  is  always  poor  and  despised 
without  one.  Now,  a  good  character  in  this  world  is  lost  as 
much  by  imprudence  as  guilt;  and  if  you  were  to  live  with 
me  much  longer,  it  would  be  imprudent,  and  your  character 
would  suffer  so  much  that  you  would  not  be  able  to  make  your 
own  way  in  the  world.  Far,  then,  from  doing  you  a  service, 
I  should  have  done  you  a  deadly  injury,  which  I  could  not 
atone  for.  Besides,  Heaven  knows  what  may  happen  worse 
than  imprudence;  for  I  am  very  sorry  to  say,"  added  Mal- 
travers,  with  great  gravity,  "that  you  are  much  too  pretty 
and  engaging  to  —  to —  In  short,  it  won't  do.  I  must  go 
home;  my  friends  will  have  a  right  to  complain  of  me  if  I  re- 
main thus  lost  to  them  many  weeks  longer.  And  you,  my 
dear  Alice,  are  now  sufficiently  advanced  to  receive  better 
instruction  than  I  or  Mr.  Simcox  can  give  you.  I  therefore 
propose  to  place  you  in  some  respectable  family,  where  you 
will  have  more  comfort  and  a  higher  station  than  you  have 
here.  You  can  finish  your  education,  and  instead  of  being 
taught,  you  will  be  thus  enabled  to  become  a  teacher  to 
others.  With  your  beauty,  Alice,"  and  Maltravers  sighed, 
"and  natural  talents  and  amiable  temper,  you  have  only  to 
act  well  and  prudently  to  secure  at  last  a  worthy  husband  and 
a  happy  home.  Have  you  heard  me,  Alice?  Such  is  the  plan 
I  have  formed  for  you. " 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  33 

The  young  man  thought  as  he  spoke,  with  honest  kindness 
and  upright  honour;  it  was  a  bitterer  sacrifice  than  perhaps 
the  reader  thinks  for.  But  Maltravers,  if  he  had  an  impas- 
sioned, had  not  a  selfish  heart;  and  he  felt,  to  use  his  own 
expression,  more  emphatic  than  eloquent,  that  "  it  would  not 
do"  to  live  any  longer  alone  with  this  beautiful  girl,  like  the 
two  children  whom  the  good  Fairy  kept  safe  from  sin  and  the 
world  in  the  Pavilion  of  Roses. 

But  Alice  comprehended  neither  the  danger  to  herself  nor 
the  temptations  that  Maltravers,  if  he  could  not  resist,  de- 
sired to  shun.  She  rose,  pale  and  trembling,  approached 
Maltravers,  and  laid  her  hand  gently  on  his  arm. 

"I  will  go  away  when  and  where  you  wish, — the  sooner 
the  better;  to-morrow, — yes,  to-morrow.  You  are  ashamed 
of  poor  Alice,  and  it  has  been  very  silly  in  me  to  be  so  happy. " 
She  struggled  with  her  emotion  for  a  moment,  and  went  on. 
"  You  know  Heaven  can  hear  me,  even  when  I  am  away  from 
you;  and  when  I  know  more,  I  can  pray  better;  and  Heaven 
will  bless  you,  sir,  and  make  you  happy,  for  I  never  can  pray 
for  anything  else." 

With  these  words  she  turned  away  and  walked  proudly  to- 
wards the  door.  But  when  she  reached  the  threshold,  she 
stopped  and  looked  round,  as  if  to  take  a  last  farewell.  All 
the  associations  and  memories  of  that  beloved  spot  rushed 
upon  her,  she  gasped  for  breath,  tottered,  and  fell  to  the 
ground  insensible. 

Maltravers  was  already  by  her  side;  he  lifted  her  light 
weight  in  his  arms;  he  uttered  wild  and  impassioned  excla- 
mations: "Alice,  beloved  Alice,  forgive  me;  we  will  never 
part!  "  He  chafed  her  hands  in  his  own  while  her  head  lay 
on  his  bosom,  and  he  kissed  again  and  again  those  beautiful 
eyelids  till  they  opened  slowly  upon  him,  and  the  tender 
arms  tightened  round  him  involuntarily. 

"Alice,"  he  whispered, —  "Alice,  dear  Alice,  I  love  thee." 
Alas!  it  was  true;  he  loved  —  and  forgot  all  but  that  love. 
He  was  eighteen. 


34  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

How  like  a  younker  or  a  prodigal, 

The  scarfed  bark  puts  from  her  native  bay  ! 

Merchant  of  Venice. 

We  are  apt  to  connect  the  voice  of  Conscience  witli  the 
stillness  of  midnight.  But  I  think  we  wrong  that  innocent 
hour.  It  is  that  terrible  "next  morning,"  when  reason  is 
wide  awake,  upon  which  remorse  fastens  its  fangs.  Has  a 
man  gambled  away  his  all,  or  shot  his  friend  in  a  duel;  has 
he  committed  a  crime  or  incurred  a  laugh, —  it  is  the  next 
morning,  when  the  irretrievable  Past  rises  before  him  like  a 
spectre;  then  doth  the  churchyard  of  memory  yield  up  its 
grisly  dead;  then  is  the  witching  hour  when  the  foul  fiend 
within  us  can  least  tempt,  perhaps,  but  most  torment.  At 
night  we  have  one  thing  to  hope  for,  one  refuge  to  fly  to, — 
oblivion  and  sleep.  But  at  morning,  sleep  is  over,  and  we 
are  called  upon  coldly  to  review  and  re-act  and  live  again  the 
waking  bitterness  of  self-reproach.  Maltravers  rose  a  peni- 
tent and  unhappy  man;  remorse  was  new  to  him,  and  he 
felt  as  if  he  had  committed  a  treacherous  and  fraudulent  as 
Avell  as  guilty  deed.  This  poor  girl,  she  was  so  innocent,  so 
confiding,  so  unprotected,  even  by  her  own  sense  of  right. 
He  went  downstairs  listless  and  dispirited.  He  longed  yet 
dreaded  to  encounter  Alice.  He  heard  her  step  in  the  con- 
servatory, paused  irresolute,  and  at  length  joined  her.  For 
the  first  time  she  blushed  and  trembled,  and  her  eyes  shunned 
his.  But  when  he  kissed  her  hand  in  silence,  she  whispered, 
"And  am  I  now  to  leave  you?"  And  Maltravers  answered 
fervently,  "  Never ! "  and  then  her  face  grew  so  radiant  with 
joy  that  Maltravers  was  comforted  despite  himself.  Alice 
knew  no  remorse,  though  she  felt  agitated  and  ashamed ;  as 
she  had  not  comprehended  the  danger,  neither  was  she  aware 
of  the  fall.    In  fact,  she  never  thought  of  herself.    Her  whole 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  35 

soul  was  with  him;  she  gave  him  back  in  love  the  spirit  she 
had  caught  from  him  iu  knowledge. 

And  they  strolled  together  through  the  garden  all  that  day, 
and  Maltravers  grew  reconciled  to  himself.  He  had  done 
wrong,  it  is  true;  but  then  perhaps  Alice  had  already  suffered 
as  much  as  she  could  in  the  world's  opinion  by  living  with 
him  alone,  though  innocent,  so  long.  And  now  she  had  an 
everlasting  claim  to  his  protection,  —  she  should  never  know 
shame  or  want.  And  the  love  that  had  led  to  the  wrong 
should,  by  fidelity  and  devotion,  take  from  it  the  character 
of  sin. 

Natural  and  commonplace  sophistries!  "L'homme  se 
pique,"  as  old  Montaigne  said, —  "Man  is  his  own  sharper." 
The  conscience  is  the  most  elastic  material  in  the  world.  To- 
day you  cannot  stretch  it  over  a  mole-hill;  to-morrow  it  hides 
a  mountain. 

Oh,  how  happy  they  were  now,  that  young  pair !  How  the 
days  flew  like  dreams !  Time  went  on,  winter  passed  away, 
and  the  early  spring,  with  its  flowers  and  sunshine,  was  like 
a  mirror  to  their  own  youth.  Alice  never  accompanied  Mal- 
travers in  his  walks  abroad,  partly  because  she  feared  to  meet 
her  father,  and  partly  because  Maltravers  himself  was  fastid- 
iously averse  to  all  publicity.  But  then  they  had  all  that 
little  world  of  three  acres  —  lawn  and  fountain,  shrubbery 
and  terrace  —  to  themselves,  and  Alice  never  asked  if  there 
was  any  other  world  without.  She  was  now  quite  a  scholar, 
as  Mr.  Simcox  himself  averred.  She  could  read  aloud  and 
fluently  to  Maltravers,  and  copied  out  his  poetry  in  a  small, 
fluctuating  hand,  and  he  had  no  longer  to  chase  throughout 
his  vocabulary  for  short  Saxon  monosyllables  to  make  the 
bridge  of  intercourse  between  their  ideas.  Eros  and  Psyche 
are  ever  united,  and  Love  opens  all  the  petals  of  the  soul. 
On  one  subject  alone,  Maltravers  was  less  eloquent  than  of 
yore.  He  had  not  succeeded  as  a  moralist,  and  he  thought  it 
hypocritical  to  preach  what  he  did  not  practise.  But  Alice 
was  gentler  and  purer,  and  as  far  as  she  knew,  sweet  fool! 
better  than  ever, —  she  had  invented  a  new  prayer  for  herself; 


36  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

and  she  prayed  as  regularly  and  as  fervently  as  if  she  were 
doing  nothing  amiss.  But  the  code  of  Heaven  is  gentler  than 
that  of  earth,  and  does  not  declare  that  ignorance  excuseth 
not  the  crime. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Some  clouds  sweep  on  as  vultures  for  their  prey. 

No  azure  more  shall  robe  the  firmament, 
Nor  spangled  stars  be  glorious. 

Bykon  :  Heaven  and  Earth. 

It  was  a  lovely  evening  in  April ;  the  weather  was  unusu- 
ally mild  and  serene  for  the  time  of  year  in  the  northern 
districts  of  our  isle,  and  the  bright  drops  of  a  recent  shower 
sparkled  upon  the  buds  of  the  lilac  and  laburnum  that  clus- 
tered round  the  cottage  of  Maltravers.  The  little  fountain 
that  played  in  the  centre  of  a  circular  basin,  on  whose  clear 
surface  the  broad-leaved  water-lily  cast  its  fairy  shadow, 
added  to  the  fresh  green  of  the  lawn, — 

"  And  softe  as  velvet  the  yonge  grass," 

on  which  the  rate  and  early  flowers  were  closing  their  heavy 
lids.  That  twilight  shower  had  given  a  racy  and  vigorous 
sweetness  to  the  air  which  stole  over  many  a  bank  of  violets 
and  slightly  stirred  the  golden  ringlets  of  Alice  as  she  sat  by 
the  side  of  her  entranced  and  silent  lover.  They  were  seated 
on  a  rustic  bench  just  without  the  cottage,  and  the  open  win- 
dow behind  them  admitted  the  view  of  that  happy  room,  with 
its  litter  of  books  and  musical  instruments,  eloquent  of  the 
Poetry  of  Home. 

Maltravers  was  silent,  for  his  flexile  and  excitable  fancy 
was  conjuring  up  a  thousand  shapes  along  the  transparent  air,' 
or  upon  those  shadowy  violet  banks.     He  was  not  thinking, 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  37 

he  was  imagining.  His  genius  reposed  dreamily  upon  the 
calm,  but  exquisite  sense  of  his  happiness.  Alice  was  not 
absolutely  in  his  thoughts,  but  unconsciously  she  coloured 
them  all.  If  she  had  left  his  side,  the  whole  charm  would 
have  been  broken.  But  Alice,  who  was  not  a  poet  or  a  gen- 
ius, was  thinking,  and  thinking  only  of  Maltravers.  His 
image  was  "the  broken  mirror,"  multiplied  in  a  thousand 
faithful  fragments  over  everything  fair  and  soft  in  that  lovely 
microcosm  before  her.  But  they  were  both  alike  in  one  thing, 
—  they  were  not  with  the  Future,  they  were  sensible  of  the 
Present;  the  sense  of  the  actual  life,  the  enjoyment  of  the 
breathing  time,  was  strong  within  them.  Such  is  the  privi- 
lege of  the  extremes  of  our  existence, —  Youth  and  Age. 
Middle  life  is  never  with  to-day,  its  home  is  in  to-morrow, — 
anxious  and  scheming  and  desiring,  and  wishing  this  plot 
ripened  and  that  hope  fulfilled,  while  every  wave  of  the  for- 
gotten Time  brings  it  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  end  of  all 
things.  Half  our  life  is  consumed  in  longing  to  be  nearer 
death. 

"Alice,"  said  Maltravers,  waking  at  last  from  his  revery, 
and  drawing  that  light,  childlike  form  nearer  to  him,  "you 
enjoy  this  hour  as  much  as  1  do." 

"  Oh,  much  more !  " 

"More!  and  why  so?" 

"Because  I  am  thinking  of  you,  and  perhaps  you  are  not 
thinking  of  yourself." 

Maltravers  smiled,  and  stroked  those  beautiful  ringlets, 
and  kissed  that  smooth,  innocent  forehead,  and  Alice  nestled 
herself  in  his  breast. 

" How  young  you  look  by  this  light,  Alice!"  said  he,  ten- 
derly looking  down. 

"Would  you  love  me  less  if  I  were  old?"  asked  Alice. 

"  I  suppose  I  should  never  have  loved  you  in  the  same  way 
if  you  had  been  old  when  I  first  saw  you." 

"  Yet  I  am  sure  I  should  have  felt  the  same  for  you  if  you 
had  been  —  oh !  ever  so  old !  " 

"What,  with  wrinkled  cheeks  and  palsied  head  and  a 
brown  wig  and  no  teeth,   like  Mr.   Simcox?" 


38  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

"Oh,  but  you  could  never  be  like  that!  You  would  always 
look  young;  your  heart  would  be  always  in  your  face.  That 
dear  smile, — ah,  you  would  look  beautiful  to  the  last!  " 

"But  Simcox,  though  not  very  lovely  now,  has  been,  I 
dare  say,  handsomer  than  I  am,  Alice;  and  I  shall  be  con- 
tented to  look  as  well  when  I  am  as  old!" 

"  I  should  never  know  you  were  old,  because  I  can  see  you 
just  as  I  please.  Sometimes,  when  you  are  thoughtful,  your 
brows  meet,  and  you  look  so  stern  that  I  tremble ;  but  then  1 
think  of  you  when  you  last  smiled,  and  look  up  again,  and 
though  you  are  frowning  still,  you  seem  to  smile.  I  am 
sure  you  are  different  to  other  eyes  than  to  mine;  and  time 
must  kill  me  before,  in  my  sight,  it  could  alter  youy 

"Sweet  Alice,  you  talk  eloquently,  for  you  talk  love." 

"My  heart  talks  to  you.  Ah!  I  wish  it  could  say  all  I  felt. 
I  wish  it  could  make  poetry  like  you,  or  that  words  were 
music, —  I  would  never  speak  to  you  in  anything  else.  I  was 
so  delighted  to  learn  music,  because  when  I  played  I  seemed 
to  be  talking  to  you.  I  am  sure  that  whoever  invented  music 
did  it  because  he  loved  dearly  and  wanted  to  say  so.  I  said 
*he,'  but  I  think  it  was  a  woman.     Was  it?" 

"The  Greeks  I  told  you  of,  and  whose  life  was  music, 
thought  it  was  a  god." 

"Ah!  but  you  say  the  Greeks  made  Love  a  god.  Were 
they  wicked  for  it?  " 

"Our  own  God  above  is  Love,"  said  Ernest,  seriously,  "as 
our  own  poets  have  said  and  sung.  But  it  is  a  love  of  another 
nature, —  divine,  not  human.  Come,  we  will  go  within;  the 
air  grows  cold  for  you." 

They  entered,  his  arm  round  her  waist.  The  room  smiled 
upon  them  its  quiet  welcome ;  and  Alice,  whose  heart  had  not 
half  vented  its  fulness,  sat  down  to  the  instrument  still  to 
"  talk  love  "  in  her  own  way. 

But  it  was  Saturday  evening.  Now,  every  Saturday,  Mal- 
travers  received  from  the  neighbouring  town  the  provincial 
newspaper, —  it  was  his  only  medium  of  communication  with 
the  great  world.  But  it  was  not  for  that  communication  that 
he  always  seized  it  with  avidity  and  fed  on  it  with  interest. 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  39 

The  county  in  wliich  his  father  resided  bordered  on  the  sliire 
in  which  Ernest  sojourned,  and  the  paper  included  the  news 
of  that  familiar  district  in  its  comprehensive  columns.  It 
therefore  satisfied  Ernest's  conscience  and  soothed  his  filial 
anxieties  to  read  from  time  to  time  that  Mr.  ]\Ialtravers  was 
entertaining  a  distinguished  party  of  friends  at  his  noble 
mansion  of  Lisle  Court;  or  that  Mr.  Maltravers's  fox-hounds 
had  met  on  such  a  day  at  something  copse;  or  that  Mr.  Mal- 
travers,  with  his  usual  munificence,  had  subscribed  twenty 
guineas  to  the  new  county  jail.  And  as  now  Maltravers  saw 
the  expected  paper  laid  beside  the  hissing  urn,  he  seized  it 
eagerly,  tore  the  envelope,  and  hastened  to  the  well-known 
corner  appropriated  to  the  paternal  district.  The  very  first 
words  that  struck  his  eye  were  these :  — 

ALARMING  ILLNESS  OF  MR.  MALTRAVERS. 

We  regret  to  state  that  this  exemplary  and  distinijuished  gentleman 
was   suddenly   seized   on    Wednesday   night  with  a  severe   spasmodic 

affection.     Dr.  was  immediately  sent  for,  who  pronounced  it  to  be 

gout  in  the  stomach.  The  first  medical  assistance  from  London  has 
been  summoned. 

P.  S.  We  have  just  learned,  in  answer  to  our  inquiries  at  Lisle 
Court,  that  the  respected  owner  is  considerably  worse ;  but  slight  hopes 
are  entertained  of  his  recovery.  Captain  Maltravers,  his  eldest  son 
and  heir,  is  at  Lisle  Court.  An  express  has  been  despatched  in  search 
of  Mr.  Ernest  Maltravers,  who,  involved  by  his  high  EngUsh  spirit  in 
some  dispute  with  the  authorities  of  a  despotic  government,  had  sud- 
denly disappeared  from  Gottingen,  where  his  extraordinary  talents  had 
highly  distinguished  him.     He  is  supposed  to  be  staying  at  Paris. 

The  paper  dropped  on  the  floor.  Ernest  threw  himself 
back  on  the  chair  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

Alice  was  beside  him  in  a  moment.  He  looked  up,  and 
caught  her  wistful  and  terrified  gaze.  "Oh,  Alice!"  he 
cried  bitterly,  and  almost  pushing  her  away,  "if  you  could 
but  guess  my  remorse ! "  Then,  springing  on  his  feet,  he 
hurried  from  the  room. 

Presently  the  whole  house  was  in  commotion.     The  gar- 


40  EKNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

dener,  who  was  always  in  the  house  about  supper-time,  flew 
to  the  town  for  post-horses.  The  old  woman  was  in  despair 
about  the  laundress,  for  her  first  and  only  thought  was  for 
"master's  shirts."  Ernest  locked  himself  in  his  room.  Alice, 
poor  Alice! 

In  little  more  than  twenty  minutes  the  chaise  was  at  the 
door,  and  Ernest,  pale  as  death,  came  into  the  room  where  he 
had  left  Alice. 

She  was  seated  on  the  floor,  and  the  fatal  paper  was  on  her 
lap.  She  had  been  endeavouring  in  vain  to  learn  what  had 
so  sensibly  affected  Maltravers ;  for,  as  I  said  before,  she  was 
unacquainted  with  his  real  name,  and  therefore  the  ominous 
paragraph  did  not  even  arrest  her  eye. 

He  took  the  paper  from  her,  for  he  wanted  again  and  again 
to  read  it :  some  little  word  of  hope  or  encouragement  must 
have  escaped  him.  And  then  Alice  flung  herself  on  his 
breast.  "Do  not  weep,"  said  he;  "Heaven  knows  I  have  sor- 
row enough  of  my  own!  My  father  is  dying!  So  kind,  so 
generous,  so  indulgent !  0  God,  forgive  me !  Compose  your- 
self, Alice.     You  will  hear  from  me  in  a  day  or  two." 

He  kissed  her,  but  the  kiss  was  cold  and  forced.  He  hur- 
ried away;  she  heard  the  wheels  grate  on  the  pebbles.  She 
rushed  to  the  window;  but  that  beloved  face  was  not  visible. 
Maltravers  had  drawn  the  blinds,  and  thrown  himself  back 
to  indulge  his  grief.  A  moment  more,  and  even  the  vehicle 
that  bore  him  away  was  gone.  And  before  her  were  the  flow- 
ers and  the  starlit  lawn  and  the  playful  fountain  and  the 
bench  where  they  had  sat  in  such  heartfelt  and  serene  de- 
light. He  was  gone;  and  often,  oh,  how  often!  did  Alice  re- 
member that  his  last  words  had  been  uttered  in  estranged 
tones, — that  his  last  embrace  had  been  without  love! 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  41 


CHAPTER   IX. 

Thy  due  from  me 
Is  tears  and  heavy  sorro\\s  of  the  blood, 
Which  nature,  luve,  and  filial  tenderness 
Shall,  0  dear  father,  pay  thee  plenteously  ! 

Second  Part  of  Henri/  IV.  Act  iv.  sc.  4. 

It  was  late  at  night  when  the  chaise  that  bore  Maltravers 
stopped  at  the  gates  of  a  park  lodge.  It  seemed  an  age  be- 
fore the  peasant  within  was  aroused  from  the  deep  sleep  of 
labour-loving  health.  "My  father,"  he  cried,  while  the  gate 
creaked  on  its  hinges,  "my  father, —  is  he  better?  Is  he 
alive?" 

•'Oh!  bless  your  heart.  Master  Ernest,  the  squire  was  a 
little  better  this  evening," 

"Thank  Heaven!     On,  on!  " 

The  horses  smoked  and  galloped  along  a  road  that  wound 
through  venerable  and  ancient  groves.  The  moonlight  slept 
soft  upon  the  sward,  and  the  cattle,  disturbed  from  their 
sleep,  rose  lazily  up  and  gazed  upon  the  unseasonable  intruder. 

It  is  a  wild  and  weird  scene,  one  of  those  noble  English  parks 
at  midnight,  with  its  rough  forest-ground  broken  into  dell  and 
valley,  its  never-innovated  and  mossy  grass,  overrun  with  fern, 
and  its  immemorial  trees,  that  have  looked  upon  the  birth, 
and  look  yet  upon  the  graves,  of  a  hundred  generations. 
Such  spots  are  the  last  proud  and  melancholy  trace  of  Xorman 
knighthood  and  old  romance  left  to  the  laughing  landscapes 
of  cultivated  England.  They  always  throw  something  of 
shadow  and  solemn  gloom  upon  minds  that  feel  their  associa- 
tions, like  that  which  belongs  to  some  ancient  and  holy  edi- 
fice. They  are  the  cathedral  aisles  of  Xature,  with  their 
darkened  vistas  and  columned  trunks  and  arches  of  mighty 
foliage.  But  in  ordinary  times  the  gloom  is  pleasing,  and 
more  delightful  than  all  the  cheerful  lawns  and  sunny  slopes 


42  ERXEST  MALTRAVERS. 

of  the  modern  taste.  Now  to  Maltravers  it  was  ominous  and 
oppressive;  the  darkness  of  death  seemed  brooding  in  every 
shadow,  and  its  warning  voice  moaning  in  every  breeze. 

The  wheels  stopped  again.  Lights  flitted  across  the  base- 
ment story,  and  one  above,  more  dim  than  the  rest,  shone 
palely  from  the  room  in  which  the  sick  man  slept.  The  bell 
rang  shrilly  out  from  amidst  the  dark  ivy  that  clung  around 
the  porch.  The  heavy  door  swung  back,  —  Maltravers  was 
on  the  threshold.  His  father  lived,  was  better,  was  awake. 
The  son  was  in  the  father's  arms. 


CHAPTER  X. 

The  guardian  oak 
Mourned  o'er  the  roof  it  sheltered ;  the  thick  air 
Laboured  with  doleful  sounds. 

Elliott  of  Sheffield. 

Many  days  had  passed,  and  Alice  was  still  alone;  but  she 
had  heard  twice  from  Maltravers.  The  letters  were  short 
and  hurried.  One  time  his  father  was  better,  and  there  were 
hopes;  another  time,  and  it  was  not  expected  that  he  could 
survive  the  week.  They  were  the  first  letters  Alice  had  ever 
received  from  him.  Those  first  letters  are  an  event  in  a 
girl's  life,  —  in  Alice's  life  they  were  a  very  melancholy  one. 
Ernest  did  not  ask  her  to  write  to  him, —  in  fact,  he  felt  at 
such  an  hour  a  repugnance  to  disclose  his  real  name  and  re- 
ceive the  letters  of  clandestine  love  in  the  house  in  which  a 
father  lay  in  death.  He  might  have  given  the  feigned  ad- 
dress he  had  previously  assumed,  at  some  distant  post-town 
where  his  person  was  not  known.  But  then,  to  obtain  such 
letters,  he  must  quit  his  father's  side  for  hours.  The  thing 
was  impossible.  These  diiflculties  Maltravers  did  not  explain 
to  Alice. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  43 

She  thought  it  singular  he  did  not  wish  to  hear  from  her; 
but  Alice  was  humble.  What  could  she  say  worth  troubling 
him  with,  and  at  such  an  hour?  But  how  kind  in  him  to 
write!  How  precious  those  letters!  And  yet  they  disap- 
pointed her,  and  cost  her  floods  of  tears,  they  were  so  short, 
so  full  of  sorrow,  there  was  so  little  love  in  them;  and 
"dear,"  or  even  ''dearest,  Alice,"  that  uttered  by  the  voice 
was  so  tender,  looked  cold  upon  the  lifeless  paper.  If  she 
but  knew  the  exact  spot  where  he  was,  it  would  be  some  com- 
fort; but  she  only  knew  that  he  was  away,  and  in  grief;  and 
though  he  was  little  more  than  thirty  miles  distant,  she  felt 
as  if  immeasurable  space  divided  them.  However,  she  con- 
soled herself  as  she  could,  and  strove  to  shorten  the  long, 
miserable  day  by  playing  over  all  the  airs  he  liked,  and  read- 
ing all  the  passages  he  had  commended;  she  should  be  so  im- 
proved when  he  returned!  And  how  lovely  the  garden  would 
look;  for  every  day  its  trees  and  bouquets  caught  a  new  smile 
from  the  deepening  spring.  Oh,  they  would  be  so  happy 
once  more!  Alice  now  learned  the  life  that  lies  in  the  fu- 
ture; and  her  young  heart  had  not,  as  yet,  been  taught  that 
of  that  future  there  is  any  prophet  but  Hope! 

Maltravers  on  quitting  the  cottage  had  forgotten  that  Alice 
was  without  money;  and  now  that  he  found  his  stay  would 
be  indefinitely  prolonged,  he  sent  a  remittance.  Several 
bills  were  unpaid,  some  portion  of  the  rent  was  due;  and 
Alice,  as  she  was  desired,  intrusted  the  old  servant  with  a 
bank-note,  with  which  she  was  to  discharge  these  petty 
debts.  One  evening,  as  she  brought  Alice  the  surplus,  the 
good  dame  seemed  greatly  discomposed.  She  was  pale  and 
agitated;  or,  as  she  expressed  it,  had  "a  terrible  fit  of  the 
shakes." 

"What  is  the  matter,  Mrs.  Jones?  You  have  no  news  of 
him,  of  —  of  my  —  of  your  master?  " 

"Dear  heart  —  miss  —  no,"  answered  Mrs.  Jones;  "how 
should  I?  But  I'm  sure  I  don't  wish  to  frighten  you;  there 
has  been  two  sich  robberies  in  the  neighbourhood!  " 

"Oh,  thank  Heaven  that 's  all!  "  exclaimed  Alice. 

"Oh!    don't  go  for  to  thank  Heaven  for  that,   miss;    it's 


44  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

a  shocking  thing  for  two  lone  females  like  us,  and  them  'ere 
windows  all  open  to  the  ground  You  sees,  as  I  was  taking 
the  note  to  be  changed  at  Mr.  Harris's,  the  great  grocer's 
shop,  where  all  the  poor  folk  was  a-buymg  agin  to-morrow  " 
(for  it  was  Saturday  night, —  the  second  Saturday  after  Er- 
nest's departure ;  from  that  Hegira  Alice  dated  all  her  chro- 
nology), "and  everybody  was  a-talking  about  the  robberies 
last  night.  La,  miss,  they  bound  old  Betty  —  you  know 
Betty?  A  most  respectable  'oman,  who  has  known  sorrows, 
and  drinks  tea  with  me  once  a  week.  Well,  miss,  they  (only 
think!)  bound  Betty  to  the  bedpost,  with  nothing  on  her  but 
her  shift,  poor  old  soul!  And  as  Mr.  Harris  gave  me  the 
change  (please  to  see,  miss,  it 's  all  right),  and  I  asked  for 
half  gould,  miss, —  it's  more  convenient, —  sich  an  ill-looking 
fellow  was  by  me,  a-buying  o'  baccy,  and  he  did  so  stare  at 
the  money  that  I  vows  I  thought  he  'd  have  rin  away  with  it 
from  the  counter;  so  I  grabbled  it  up  and  went  away.  But 
—  would  you  believe,  miss?  —  just  as  I  got  into  the  lane, 
afore  you  turns  through  the  gate,  I  chanced  to  look  back,  and 
there,  sure  enough,  was  that  ugly  fellow  close  behind,  a-run- 
ning  like  mad.  Oh!  I  set  up  such  a  screech;  and  young 
Dobbins  was  a-taking  his  cow  out  of  the  field,  and  he  perked 
up  over  the  hedge  when  he  heard  me ;  and  the  cow,  too,  with 
her  horns.  Lord  bless  her!  So  the  fellow  stopped,  and  I  bus- 
tled through  the  gate  and  got  home.  But  la,  miss,  if  we  are 
all  robbed  and  murdered !  " 

Alice  had  not  heard  much  of  this  harangue;  but  what  she 
did  hear  very  slightly  affected  her  strong,  peasant-born 
nerves,  —  not  half  so  much,  indeed,  as  the  noise  Mrs.  Jones 
made  in  double-locking  all  the  doors  and  barring,  as  well  as  a 
peg  and  a  rusty  inch  of  chain  would  allow,  all  the  windows ; 
which  operation  occupied  at  least  an  hour  and  a  half. 

All  at  last  was  still.  Mrs.  Jones  had  gone  to  bed, —  in  the 
arms  of  sleep  she  had  forgotten  her  terrors,  —  and  Alice  had 
crept  upstairs  and  undressed  and  said  her  prayers  and  wept  a 
little,  and  with  the  tears  yet  moist  upon  her  dark  eyelashes 
had  glided  into  dreams  of  Ernest.  ]\Iidnight  was  passed ;  the 
stroke  of  one  sounded  unheard  from  the  clock  at  the  foot  of 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  45 

the  stairs.  The  moon  was  gone;  a  slow,  drizzling  rain  was 
falling  upon  the  flowers,  and  cloud  and  darkness  gathered  fast 
and  thick  around  the  sky. 

About  this  time  a  low,  regular,  grating  sound  commenced 
at  the  thin  shutters  of  the  sitting-room  below,  preceded  by  a 
very  faint  noise,  like  the  tinkling  of  small  fragments  of  glass 
on  the  gravel  without.  At  length  it  ceased,  and  the  cautious 
and  partial  gleam  of  a  lantern  fell  along  the  floor;  another 
moment,   and  two  men  stood  in  the  room. 

"  Hush,  Jack ! "  whispered  one ;  "  hang  out  the  glim,  and 
let 's  look  about  us." 

The  dark-lantern,  now  fairly  unmuffled,  presented  to  the 
gaze  of  the  robbers  nothing  that  could  gratify  their  cupidity. 

Books  and  music,  chairs,  tables,  carpet,  and  fire-irons, 
though  valuable  enough  in  a  house-agent's  inventory,  are 
worthless  to  the  eyes  of  a  housebreaker.  They  muttered  a 
mutual  curse. 

"Jack,"  said  the  former  speaker,  "we  must  make  a  dash  at 
the  spoons  and  forks,  and  then  hey  for  the  money.  The  old 
girl  had  thirty  shiners,  besides  flimsies." 

The  accomplice  nodded  consent;  the  lantern  was  again  par- 
tially shaded,  and  with  noiseless  and  stealthy  steps  the  men 
quitted  the  apartment.  Several  minutes  elapsed,  when  Alice 
was  awakened  from  her  slumber  by  a  loud  scream.  She 
started, —  all  was  again  silent;  she  must  have  dreamed  it. 
Her  little  heart  beat  violently  at  first,  but  gradually  regained 
its  tenor.  She  rose,  however,  and  the  kindness  of  her  nature 
being  more  susceptible  than  her  fear,  she  imagined  Mrs. 
Jones  might  be  ill, —  she  would  go  to  her.  With  this  idea 
she  began  partially  dressing  herself,  when  she  distinctly 
heard  heavy  footsteps  and  a  strange  voice  in  the  room  beyond. 
She  was  now  thoroughly  alarmed.  Her  first  impulse  was  to 
escape  from  the  house;  her  next,  to  bolt  the  door  and  call 
aloud  for  assistance.  But  who  would  hear  her  cries?  Be- 
tween the  two  purposes  she  halted  irresolute,  and  remained, 
pale  and  trembling,  seated  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  when  a 
broad  light  streamed  through  the  chinks  of  the  door;  an  in- 
stant more  and  a  rude  hand  seized  her. 


46  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

*'Come,  mem,  don't  be  fritted,  we  won't  harm  you;  but 
where 's  tlie  gold-dust, —  where 's  the  money?  The  old  girl 
says  you  've  got  it.     Fork  it  over." 

"Oh,  mercy,  mercy!     John  Walters,  is  that  you?" 

"  Damnation !  "  muttered  the  man,  staggering  back.  *'  So 
you  knows  me,  then?  But  you  sha 'n't  peach;  you  sha'u't 
scrag  me,  b — t  you !  " 

While  he  spoke,  he  again  seized  Alice,  held  her  forcibly 
down  with  one  hand,  while  with  the  other  he  deliberately 
drew  from  a  side  pouch  a  long  case-knife.  In  that  moment  of 
deadly  peril  the  second  ruffian,  who  had  been  hitherto  de- 
layed in  securing  the  servant,  rushed  forward.  He  had  heard 
the  exclamation  of  Alice,  he  heard  the  threat  of  his  com- 
rade; he  darted  to  the  bedside,  cast  a  hurried  gaze  upon 
Alice,  and  hurled  the  intended  murderer  to  the  other  side 
of  the  room. 

"What,  man,  art  mad?"  he  growled  between  his  teeth. 
"Don't  you  know  her?     It  is  Alice, —  it  is  my  daughter." 

Alice  had  sprung  up  when  released  from  the  murderer's 
knife,  and  now,  with  eyes  strained  and  starting  with  horror, 
gazed  upon  the  dark  and  evil  face  of  her  deliverer. 

"  0  God,  it  is,  it  is  my  father !  "  she  muttered,  and  fell 
senseless. 

"Daughter  or  no  daughter,"  said  John  Walters,  "I  shall 
not  put  my  scrag  in  her  power;  recollect  how  she  fritted  us 
before,  when  she  run  away." 

Darvil  stood  thoughtful  and  perplexed;  and  his  associate 
approached  doggedly,  with  a  look  of  such  settled  ferocity  as 
it  was  impossible  for  even  Darvil  to  contemplate  without  a 
shudder. 

"You  say  right,"  muttered  the  father  after  a  pause,  but  fix- 
ing his  strong  gripe  on  his  comrade's  shoulder, —  "the  girl 
must  not  be  left  here;  the  cart  has  a  covering.  We  are  leav- 
ing the  country;  I  have  a  right  to  my  daughter, —  she  shall 
go  with  us.  There,  man,  grab  the  money, —  it 's  on  the  table; 
you  've  got  the  spoons.  Now  then  —  "  as  Darvil  spoke,  he 
seized  his  daughter  in  his  arms,  threw  over  her  a  shawl  and 
a  cloak  that  lay  at  hand,  and  was  already  on  the  threshold. 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  47 

"I  don't  half  like  it,"  said  Walters,  grumblingly ;  **it 
be  n't  safe." 

"At  least  it  is  as  safe  as  murder!  "  answered  Darvil,  turn- 
ing round,  with  a  ghastly  grin.     "Make  haste." 

When  Alice  recovered  her  senses,  the  dawn  was  breaking 
slowly  along  desolate  and  sullen  hills.  She  was  lying  upon 
rough  straw,  the  cart  was  jolting  over  the  ruts  of  a  precipi- 
tous, lonely  road,  and  by  her  side  scowled  the  face  of  that 
dreadful  father. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Yet  he  beholds  her  with  the  eyes  of  mind,  — 
He  sees  the  form  which  he  no  more  shall  meet ; 
She  like  a  passionate  thought  is  come  and  gone, 
While  at  his  feet  the  bright  rill  babbles  on. 

Elliott  of  Sheffield. 

It  was  a  little  more  than  three  weeks  after  that  fearfiil 
night  when  the  chaise  of  Maltravers  stopped  at  the  cottage - 
door.  The  windows  were  shut  up;  no  one  answered  the  re- 
peated summons  of  the  post-boy.  Maltravers  himself,  alarmed 
and  amazed,  descended  from  the  vehicle;  he  was  in  deep 
mourning.  He  went  impatiently  to  the  back  entrance,  —  that 
also  was  locked;  round  to  the  French  windows  of  the  draw- 
ing-room, always  hitherto  half-opened,  even  in  the  frosty 
days  of  winter, — they  were  now  closed  like  the  rest.  He 
shouted  in  terror,  "Alice,  Alice!"  No  sweet  voice  answered 
in  breathless  joy,  no  fairy  step  bounded  forward  in  welcome. 

At  this  moment,  however,  appeared  the  form  of  the  gar- 
dener coming  across  the  lawn.  The  tale  was  soon  told:  the 
house  had  been  robbed;  the  old  woman  at  morning  found 
gagged  and  fastened  to  her  bed-post;  Alice  flown.  A  magis- 
trate had  been  applied  to,  —  suspicion  fell  upon  the  fugitive. 
None  knew  anything  of  her  origin  or  name,  not  even  the  old 


48  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

woman.  Maltravers  had  naturally  and  sedulously  ordained 
Alice  to  preserve  that  secret,  and  she  was  too  much  in  fear 
of  being  detected  and  claimed  by  her  father  not  to  obey  the 
injunction  with  scrupulous  caution.  But  it  was  known,  at 
least,  that  she  had  entered  the  house  a  poor  peasant  girl ;  and 
what  more  common  than  for  ladies  of  a  certain  description  to 
run  away  from  their  lover  and  take  some  of  his  property  by 
mistake?  And  a  poor  girl  like  Alice,  what  else  could  be  ex- 
pected? The  magistrate  smiled,  and  the  constables  laughed. 
After  all,  it  was  a  good  joke  at  the  young  gentleman's  ex- 
pense !  Perhaps,  as  they  had  no  orders  from  Maltravers,  and 
they  did  not  know  where  to  find  him,  and  thought  he  would 
be  little  inclined  to  prosecute,  the  search  was  not  very  rig- 
orous. But  two  houses  had  been  robbed  the  night  before. 
Their  owners  were  more  on  the  alert.  Suspicion  fell  upon  a 
man  of  infamous  character,  John  Walters ;  he  had  disappeared 
from  the  place.  He  had  been  last  seen  with  an  idle,  drunken 
fellow  who  was  said  to  have  known  better  days,  and  who  at 
one  time  had  been  a  skilful  and  well-paid  mechanic,  till  his 
habits  of  theft  and  drunkenness  threw  him  out  of  employ; 
and  he  had  been  since  accused  of  connection  with  a  gang  of 
coiners,  tried,  and  escaped  from  want  of  sufficient  evidence 
against  him.  That  man  was  Luke  Darvil.  His  cottage  was 
searched,  but  he  also  had  fled.  The  trace  of  cart-wheels  by 
the  gate  of  Maltravers  gave  a  faint  clew  to  pursuit;  and  after 
an  active  search  of  some  days,  persons  answering  to  the  de- 
scription of  the  suspected  burglars,  with  a  young  female  in 
their  company,  were  tracked  to  a  small  inn,  notorious  as  a 
resort  for  smugglers,  by  the  sea-coast.  But  there  every  ves- 
tige of  their  supposed  whereabouts  disappeared. 

And  all  this  was  told  to  the  stunned  Maltravers;  the  gar- 
rulity of  the  gardener  precluded  the  necessity  of  his  own  in- 
quiries, and  the  name  of  Darvil  explained  to  him  all  that  was 
dark  to  others.  And  Alice  was  suspected  of  the  basest  and 
blackest  guilt!  Obscure,  beloved,  protected  as  she  had  been, 
she  could  not  escape  the  calumny  from  which  he  had  hoped 
everlastingly  to  shield  her.  But  did  he,  share  that  hateful 
thought?    Maltravers  was  too  generous  and  too  enlightened. 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  49 

"Dog!  "  said  he,  grinding  his  teeth  and  clenching  his  hands 
at  the  startled  menial,  "  dare  to  utter  a  syllable  of  suspicion 
against  her,  and  I  will  trample  the  breath  out  of  your  body !  " 

The  old  woman,  who  had  vowed  that  for  the  'varsal  world 
she  would  not  stay  in  the  house  after  such  a  "  night  of  shakes," 
had  now  learned  the  news  of  her  master's  return,  and  came 
hobbling  up  to  him.  She  arrived  in  time  to  hear  his  menace 
to  her  fellow-servant. 

"Ah!  that's  right;  give  it  him,  your  honour.  Bless  your 
good  heart,  that's  what  I  says!  'Miss  rob  the  house?'  says 
I, —  'Miss  run  away?  Oh,  no!  Depend  on  it,  they  have 
murdered  her  and  buried  the  body ! '  " 

Maltravers  gasped  for  breath;  but  without  uttering  another 
word  he  re-entered  the  chaise  and  drove  to  the  house  of  the 
magistrate.  He  found  that  functionary  a  worthy  and  intelli- 
gent man  of  the  world.  To  him  he  confided  the  secret  of 
Alice's  birth  and  his  own.  The  magistrate  concurred  with 
him  in  believing  that  Alice  had  been  discovered  and  removed 
by  her  father.  New  search  was  made,  gold  was  lavished; 
Maltravers  himself  headed  the  search  in  person.  But  all 
came  to  the  same  result  as  before,  save  that  by  the  descrip- 
tions he  heard  of  the  person,  the  dress,  the  tears  of  the  young 
female  who  had  accompanied  the  men  supposed  to  be  Darvil 
and  Walters,  he  was  satisfied  that  Alice  yet  lived;  he  hoped 
she  might  yet  escape  and  return.  In  that  hope  he  lingered 
for  weeks,  for  months,  in  the  neighbourhood ;  but  time  passed, 
and  no  tidings.  He  was  forced  at  length  to  quit  a  neighbour- 
hood at  once  so  saddened  and  endeared.  But  he  secured  a 
friend  in  the  magistrate,  who  promised  to  communicate  with 
him  if  Alice  returned  or  her  father  was  discovered.  He  en- 
riched Mrs.  Jones  for  life,  in  gratitude  for  her  vindication  of 
his  lost  and  early  love;  he  promised  the  amplest  rewards  for 
the  smallest  clew;  and  with  a  crushed  and  desponding  spirit 
he  obeyed  at  last  the  repeated  and  anxious  summons  of  the 
guardian  to  whose  care,  until  his  majority  was  attained,  the 
young  orphan  was  now  intrusted. 


50  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

Sure  there  are  poets  that  did  never  dream 
Upon  Parnassus.  —  Denham. 

Walk  sober  off,  before  a  sprightlier  age 

Come  tittering  on,  and  shove  you  from  the  stage.  —  Pope. 

Hence  to  repose  your  trust  in  me  was  wise. 

Dryden:  Absalom  and  Achitophel. 

Mr.  Frederick  Cleveland,  a  younger  son  of  the  Earl  of 
Byrneham,  and  therefore  entitled  to  the  style  and  distinction 
of  "Honourable,"  was  the  guardian  of  Ernest  Maltravers. 
He  was  now  about  the  age  of  forty -three;  a  man  of  letters 
and  a  man  of  fashion, —  if  the  last  half -obsolete  expression  be 
permitted  to  us,  as  being  at  least  more  classical  and  definite 
than  any  other  which  modern  euphuism  has  invented  to  con- 
vey the  same  meaning.  Highly  educated,  and  with  natural 
abilities  considerably  above  mediocrity,  Mr.  Cleveland  early 
in  life  had  glowed  with  the  ambition  of  an  author.  He  had 
written  well  and  gracefully,  but  his  success,  though  respecta- 
ble, did  not  satisfy  his  aspirations.  The  fact  is,  that  a  new 
school  of  literature  ruled  the  public,  despite  the  critics, —  a 
school  very  different  from  that  in  which  Mr.  Cleveland  formed 
his  unimpassioned  and  polished  periods.  And  as  that  old 
earl,  who  in  the  time  of  Charles  the  First  was  the  reigning 
wit  of  the  court,  in  the  time  of  Charles  the  Second  was  con- 
sidered too  dull  even  for  a  butt,  so  every  age  has  its  own 
literary  stamp  and  coinage,  and  consigns  the  old  circulation 
to  its  shelves  and  cabinets  as  neglected  curiosities.  Cleveland 
could  not  become  the  fashion  with  the  public  as  an  author, 
though  the  coteries  cried  him  up  and  the  reviewers  adored 
him,  and  the  ladies  of  quality  and  the  amateur  dilettanti 
bought  and  bound  his  volumes  of  careful  poetry  and  cadenced 
prose.  But  Cleveland  had  high  birth  and  a  handsome  com- 
petence; his  manners  were  delightful,  his  conversation  fluent. 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  61 

and  his  disposition  was  as  amiable  as  his  mind  was  cultured. 
He  became,  therefore,  a  man  greatly  sought  after  in  society, 
both  respected  and  beloved.  If  he  had  not  genius,  he  had 
great  good  sense ;  he  did  not  vex  his  urbane  tem})er  and  kindly 
heart  with  walking  after  a  vain  shadow  and  disquieting  him- 
self in  vain.  Satisfied  with  an  honourable  and  unenvied  rep- 
utation, he  gave  up  the  dream  of  that  higher  fame  which  he 
clearly  saw  was  denied  to  his  aspirations,  and  maintained 
his  good-humour  with  the  world,  though  in  his  secret  soul  he 
thought  it  was  very  wrong  in  its  literary  caprices.  Cleveland 
never  married;  he  lived  partly  in  town,  but  principally  at 
Temple  Grove, —  a  villa  not  far  from  Eichmond.  Here,  with 
an  excellent  library,  beautiful  grounds,  and  a  circle  of  at- 
tached and  admiring  friends,  which  comprised  all  the  more 
refined  and  intellectual  members  of  what  is  termed,  by  em- 
phasis, "Good  Society,"  this  accomplished  and  elegant  person 
passed  a  life  perhaps  much  happier  than  he  would  have 
known  had  his  young  visions  been  fulfilled,  and  it  had  become 
his  stormy  fate  to  lead  the  rebellious  and  fierce  Democracy  of 
Letters. 

Cleveland  was,  indeed,  if  not  a  man  of  high  and  original 
genius,  at  least  very  superior  to  the  generality  of  patrician 
authors.  In  retiring,  himself,  from  frequent  exercise  in  the 
arena,  he  gave  up  his  mind  with  renewed  zest  to  the  thoughts 
and  masterpieces  of  others.  From  a  well-read  man,  he  be- 
came a  deeply  instructed  one.  Metaphysics  and  some  of  the 
material  sciences  added  new  treasures  to  information  more 
light  and  miscellaneous,  and  contributed  to  impart  weight  and 
dignity  to  a  mind  that  might  otherwise  have  become  some- 
what effeminate  and  frivolous.  His  social  habits,  his  clear 
sense,  and  benevolence  of  judgment,  made  him  also  an  exquis- 
ite judge  of  all  those  indefinable  nothings,  or  little  things, 
that,  formed  into  a  total,  become  knowledge  of  the  Great 
World.  I  say  the  "Great  World,"  for  of  the  world  without 
the  circle  of  the  great,  Cleveland  naturally  knew  but  little. 
But  of  all  that  related  to  that  subtle  orbit  in  which  gentlemen 
and  ladies  move  in  elevated  and  ethereal  order,  Cleveland  was 
a  profound  philosopher.     It  was  the  mode  with  many  of  his 


52  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

admirers  to  style  him  the  Horace  Walpole  of  the  day;  but 
though  lu  some  of  the  more  external  and  superficial  points  of 
character  they  were  alike,  Cleveland  had  considerably  less 
cleverness,  and  infinitely  more  heart. 

The  late  Mr.  Maltravers,  a  man  not,  indeed,  of  literary 
habits,  but  an  admirer  of  those  who  were,  an  elegant,  high- 
bred, hospitable  seigneur  de  province,  had  been  one  of  the  ear- 
liest of  Cleveland's  friends.  Cleveland  had  been  his  fag  at 
Eton,  and  he  found  Hal  Maltravers  —  Handsome  Hal!  had 
become  the  darling  of  the  clubs  when  he  made  his  own  debut 
in  society.  They  were  inseparable  for  a  season  or  two;  and 
when  Mr.  Maltravers  married  and,  enamoured  of  country  pur- 
suits, proud  of  his  old  hall,  and  sensibly  enough  conceiving 
that  he  was  a  greater  man  in  his  own  broad  lands  than  in  the 
republican  aristocracy  of  London,  settled  peaceably  at  Lisle 
Court,  Cleveland  corresponded  with  him  regularly,  and  vis- 
ited him  twice  a  year.  Mrs.  Maltravers  died  in  giving  birth 
to  Ernest,  her  second  son.  Her  husband  loved  her  tenderly, 
and  was  long  inconsolable  for  her  loss.  He  could  not  bear 
the  sight  of  the  child  that  had  cost  him  so  dear  a  sacrifice. 

Cleveland  and  his  sister,  Lady  Julia  Danvers,  were  resid- 
ing with  him  at  the  time  of  this  melancholy  event,  and  with 
judicious  and  delicate  kindness,  Lady  Julia  proposed  to  place 
the  unconscious  oifender  amongst  her  own  children  for  some 
months.  The  proposition  was  accepted,  and  it  was  two 
years  before  the  infant  Ernest  was  restored  to  the  paternal 
mansion.  During  the  greater  part  of  that  time  he  had  gone 
through  all  the  events  and  revolutions  of  baby  life  under  the 
bachelor  roof  of  Frederick  Cleveland. 

The  result  of  this  was  that  the  latter  loved  the  child  like  a 
father.  Ernest's  first  intelligible  word  hailed  Cleveland  as 
"papa;"  and  when  the  urchin  was  at  length  deposited  at 
Lisle  Court,  Cleveland  talked  all  the  nurses  out  of  breath 
with  admonitions  and  cautions  and  injunctions  and  promises 
and  threats  which  might  have  put  many  a  careful  mother  to 
the  blush.  This  circumstance  formed  a  new  tie  between 
Cleveland  and  his  friend.  Cleveland's  visits  were  now  three 
times  a  year,  instead  of  twice.     Nothing  was  done  for  Ernest 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  53 

without  Cleveland's  advice;  he  was  not  even  breeched  till 
Cleveland  gave  his  grave  consent.  Cleveland  chose  his 
school  and  took  him  to  it,  and  he  spent  a  week  of  every 
vacation  in  Cleveland's  house.  The  boy  never  got  into  a 
scrape,  or  won  a  prize,  or  wanted  a  "tip,"  or  coveted  a  book, 
but  what  Cleveland  was  the  first  to  know  of  it.  Fortunately, 
too,  Ernest  manifested  by  times  tastes  which  the  graceful 
author  thought  similar  to  his  own.  He  early  developed  very 
remarkable  talents  and  a  love  for  learning,  —  though  these 
were  accompanied  with  a  vigour  of  life  and  soul,  an  energy, 
a  daring,  which  gave  Cleveland  some  uneasiness,  and  which 
did  not  appear  to  him  at  all  congenial  with  the  moody  shyness 
of  an  embryo  genius  or  the  regular  placidity  of  a  precocious 
scholar.  Meanwhile  the  relation  between  father  and  son  was 
rather  a  singular  one.  Mr.  Maltravers  had  overcome  his 
first,  not  unnatural,  repugnance  to  the  innocent  cause  of  his 
irremediable  loss.  He  was  now  fond  and  proud  of  his  boy, 
as  he  was  of  all  things  that  belonged  to  him ;  he  spoiled  and 
petted  him  even  more  than  Cleveland  did :  but  he  interfered 
very  little  with  his  education  or  pursuits.  His  eldest  son, 
Cuthbert,  did  not  engross  all  his  heart,  but  occupied  all  his 
care.  With  Cuthbert  he  connected  the  heritage  of  his  ancient 
name  and  the  succession  of  his  ancestral  estates.  Cuthbert 
was  not  a  genius,  nor  intended  to  be  one,  —  he  was  to  be  an 
accomplished  gentleman  and  a  great  proprietor.  The  father 
understood  Cuthbert,  and  could  see  clearly  both  his  character 
and  career.  He  had  no  scruple  in  managing  his  education 
and  forming  his  growing  mind.  But  Ernest  puzzled  him. 
Mr.  Maltravers  was  even  a  little  embarrassed  in  the  boy's 
society;  he  never  quite  overcame  that  feeling  of  strangeness 
towards  him  which  he  had  experienced  when  he  first  received 
him  back  from  Cleveland,  and  took  Cleveland's  directions 
about  his  health  and  so  forth.  It  always  seemed  to  him  as  if 
his  friend  shared  his  right  to  the  child;  and  he  thought  it  a 
sort  of  presumption  to  scold  Ernest,  though  he  very  often 
swore  at  Cuthbert.  As  the  younger  son  grew  up,  it  certainly 
was  evident  that  Cleveland  did  understand  him  better  than 
his  own  father  did ;  and  so,  as  I  have  before  said,  on  Cleve- 


54  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

land  the  father  was  not  displeased  passively  to  shift  the  re- 
sponsibility of  the  rearing. 

Perhaps  Mr.  Maltravers  might  not  have  been  so  indifferent, 
had  Ernest's  prospects  been  those  of  a  younger  son  in  gen- 
eral. If  a  profession  had  been  necessary  for  him,  Mr.  Mal- 
travers would  have  been  naturally  anxious  to  see  him  duly 
fitted  for  it.  But  from  a  maternal  relation  Ernest  inherited 
an  estate  of  about  four  thousand  pounds  a  year,  and  he  was 
thus  made  independent  of  his  father.  This  loosened  another 
tie  between  them ;  and  so  by  degrees  Mr.  Maltravers  learned 
to  consider  Ernest  less  as  his  own  son,  to  be  advised  or  re- 
buked, praised  or  controlled,  than  as  a  very  affectionate, 
promising,  engaging  boy,  who,  somehow  or  other,  without 
any  trouble  on  his  part,  was  very  likely  to  do  great  credit  to 
his  family  and  indulge  his  eccentricities  upon  four  thousand 
pounds  a  year.  The  first  time  that  Mr,  Maltravers  was  seri- 
ously perplexed  about  him  was  when  the  boy,  at  the  age  of 
sixteen,  having  taught  himself  German  and  intoxicated  his 
wild  fancies  with  "Werther"  and  "The  Robbers,"  announced 
his  desire,  which  sounded  very  like  a  demand,  of  going  to 
Gottingen  instead  of  to  Oxford.  Never  were  Mr.  Maltravers's 
notions  of  a  proper  and  gentlemanlike  finish  to  education 
more  completely  and  rudely  assaulted.  He  stammered  out  a 
negative,  and  hurried  to  his  study  to  write  a  long  letter  to 
Cleveland,  who,  himself  an  Oxford  prize-man,  would,  he  was 
persuaded,  see  the  matter  in  the  same  light.  Cleveland  an- 
swered the  letter  in  person;  listened  in  silence  to  all  the 
father  had  to  say,  and  then  strolled  through  the  park  with 
the  young  man.  The  result  of  the  latter  conference  was  that 
Cleveland  declared  in  favour  of  Ernest. 

"But,  my  dear  Frederick,"  said  the  astonished  father,  "I 
thought  the  boy  was  to  carry  off  all  the  prizes  at  Oxford?  " 

"I  carried  off  some,  Maltravers;  but  I  don't  see  what  good 
they  did  me." 

"Oh,  Cleveland!" 

"I  am  serious." 

"But  it  is  such  a  very  odd  fancy." 

"Your  son  is  a  very  odd  young  man." 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  55 

"I  fear  he  is  so;  I  fear  he  is,  poor  fellow!  But  what  will 
he  learn  at  Gottingen?  " 

"Languages  and  independence,"  said  Cleveland. 

"  And  the  classics,  the  classics ;  you  are  such  an  excellent 
Grecian ! " 

"There  are  great  Grecians  in  Germany,"  answered  Cleve- 
land; "and  Ernest  cannot  well  unlearn  what  he  knows  al- 
ready. My  dear  Maltravers,  the  boy  is  not  like  most  clever 
young  men.  He  must  either  go  through  action  and  adventure 
and  excitement  in  his  own  way,  or  he  will  be  an  idle  dreamer 
or  an  impracticable  enthusiast  all  his  life.  Let  him  alone. 
So  Cuthbert  is  gone  into  the  Guards?" 

"But  he  went  first  to  Oxford." 

"  Humph !     What  a  fine  young  man  he  is !  " 

"Not  so  tall  as  Ernest,  but  —  " 

"A  handsomer  face,"  said  Cleveland.  "He  is  a  son  to  be 
proud  of  in  one  way,  as  I  hope  Ernest  will  be  in  another. 
Will  you  show  me  your  new  hunter?" 

It  was  to  the  house  of  this  gentleman,  so  judiciously  made 
his  guardian,  that  the  student  of  Gottingen  now  took  his  mel- 
ancholy way. 


CHAPTER  XIIL 

BoT  if  a  little  exercise  you  choose, 

Some  zest  for  ease,  't  is  not  forbidden  here ; 

Amid  the  groves  you  may  indulge  the  Muse, 
Or  tend  the  blooms  and  deck  the  vernal  vear. 

Castle  of  Indolence. 

The  house  of  Mr.  Cleveland  was  an  Italian  villa  adapted  to 
an  English  climate.  Through  an  Ionic  arch  you  entered  a 
domain  of  some  eighty  or  a  hundred  acres  in  extent,  but  so 
well  planted  and  so  artfully  disposed  that  you  could  not  have 


56  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

supposed  the  unseen  boundaries  enclosed  no  ampler  a  space. 
The  road  wound  through  the  greenest  sward,  in  which  trees 
of  venerable  growth  were  relieved  by  a  profusion  of  shrubs, 
and  flowers  gathered  into  baskets  intertwined  with  creepers, 
or  blooming  from  classic  vases  placed  with  a  tasteful  care  in 
such  spots  as  required  the  filling  up  and  harmonized  well 
with  the  object  chosen.  Not  an  old  ivy-grown  pollard,  not  a 
modest  and  bending  willow,  but  was  brought  out,  as  it  were, 
into  a  peculiar  feature  by  the  art  of  the  owner.  Without  be- 
ing overloaded  or  too  minutely  elaborate  (the  common  fault 
of  the  rich  man's  villa),  the  whole  place  seemed  one  diversi- 
fied and  cultivated  garden;  even  the  air  almost  took  a  differ- 
ent odour  from  different  vegetation,  with  each  winding  of 
the  road;  and  the  colours  of  the  flowers  and  foliage  varied 
with  every  view. 

At  length,  when,  on  a  lawn  sloping  towards  a  glassy  lake 
overhung  by  limes  and  chestnuts,  and  backed  by  a  hanging 
wood,  the  house  itself  came  in  sight,  the  whole  prospect 
seemed  suddenly  to  receive  its  finishing  and  crowning  feature. 
The  house  was  long  and  low.  A  deep  peristyle  that  sup- 
ported the  roof  extended  the  whole  length,  and  being  raised 
above  the  basement,  had  the  appearance  of  a  covered  terrace; 
broad  flights  of  steps,  with  massive  balustrades,  supporting 
vases  of  aloes  and  orange-trees,  led  to  the  lawn;  and  under 
the  peristyle  were  ranged  statues,  Roman  antiquities,  and 
rare  exotics.  On  this  side  the  lake  another  terrace,  very 
broad,  and  adorned,  at  long  intervals,  with  urns  and  sculp- 
ture, contrasted  the  shadowy  and  sloping  bank  beyond,  and 
commanded,  through  unexpected  openings  in  the  trees,  exten- 
sive views  of  the  distant  landscape,  with  the  stately  Thames 
winding  through  the  midst.  The  interior  of  the  house  corre- 
sponded with  the  taste  without.  All  the  principal  rooms, 
even  those  appropriated  to  sleep,  were  on  the  same  floor.  A 
small  but  lofty  and  octagonal  hall  conducted  to  a  suite  of  four 
rooms.  At  one  extremity  was  a  moderately  sized  dining- 
room,  with  a  ceiling  copied  from  the  rich  and  gay  colours  of 
Guido's  "Hours;"  and  landscapes,  painted  by  Cleveland  him- 
self with  no  despicable  skill,  were  let  into  the  walls.     A  sin- 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  57 

gle  piece  of  sculpture,  copied  from  the  Piping  Faun,  and 
tinged  with  a  flesh-like  glow  by  purple  and  orange  draperies 
behind  it,  relieved  without  darkening  the  broad  and  arched 
window  which  formed  its  niche.  This  communicated  with  a 
small  picture-room, —  not,  indeed,  rich  with  those  immortal 
gems  for  which  princes  are  candidates,  for  Cleveland's  fortune 
was  but  that  of  a  private  gentleman,  though,  managed  with  a 
discreet  if  liberal  economy,  it  sufficed  for  all  his  elegant  de- 
sires ;  but  the  pictures  had  an  interest  beyond  that  of  art,  and 
their  subjects  were  within  the  reach  of  a  collector  of  ordinary 
opulence.  They  made  a  series  of  portraits,  some  originals, 
some  copies  (and  the  copies  were  often  the  best),  of  Cleve- 
land's favourite  authors ;  and  it  was  characteristic  of  the  man 
that  Pope's  worn  and  thoughtful  countenance  looked  down 
from  the  central  place  of  honour.  Appropriately  enough,  this 
room  led  into  the  library,  —  the  largest  room  in  the  house; 
the  only  one,  indeed,  that  was  noticeable  from  its  size,  as 
well  as  its  embellishments.  It  was  nearly  sixty  feet  in 
length.  The  bookcases  were  crowned  with  bronze  busts, 
while  at  intervals  statues,  placed  in  open  arches  backed  with 
mirrors,  gave  the  appearance  of  galleries  opening  from  the 
book-lined  walls,  and  introduced  an  inconceivable  air  of 
classic  lightness  and  repose  into  the  apartment;  with  these 
arches  the  windows  harmonized  so  well,  opening  on  the  peri- 
style, and  bringing  into  delightful  view  the  sculpture,  the 
flowers,  the  terraces,  and  the  lake  without,  that  the  actual 
prospects  half  seduced  you  into  the  belief  that  they  were  de- 
signs by  some  master-hand  of  the  poetical  gardens  that  yet 
crown  the  hills  of  Rome.  Even  the  colouring  of  the  pros- 
pects on  a  sunny  day  favoured  the  delusion,  owing  to  the 
deep,  rich  hues  of  the  simple  draperies  and  the  stained  glass 
of  which  the  upper  panes  of  the  windows  were  composed. 
Cleveland  was  especially  fond  of  sculpture;  he  was  sensible, 
too,  of  the  mighty  impulse  which  that  art  has  received  in 
Europe  within  the  last  half  century.  He  was  even  capable 
of  asserting  the  doctrine,  not  yet  sufficiently  acknowledged  in 
this  country,  that  Flaxman  surpassed  Canova.  He  loved 
sculpture  too,  not  only  for  its  own  beauty,  but  for  the  beauti- 


58  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

fying  and  intellectual  effect  that  it  produces  wherever  it  is 
admitted.  It  is  a  great  mistake,  he  was  wont  to  say,  in  col- 
lectors of  statues  to  arrange  them  pele-mele  in  one  long, 
monotonous  gallery.  The  single  relief  or  statue  or  bust  or 
simple  urn,  introduced  appropriately  in  the  smallest  apart- 
ment we  inhabit,  charms  us  infinitely  more  than  those  gi- 
gantic museums  crowded  into  rooms  never  entered  but  for 
show  and  without  a  chill,  uncomfortable  shiver.  Besides, 
this  practice  of  galleries,  which  the  herd  consider  orthodox, 
places  sculpture  out  of  the  patronage  of  the  public.  There 
are  not  a  dozen  people  who  can  afford  galleries,  but  every 
moderately  affluent  gentleman  can  afford  a  statue  or  a  bust. 
The  influence,  too,  upon  a  man's  mind  and  taste  created  by 
the  constant  and  habitual  view  of  monuments  of  the  only  im- 
perishable art  which  resorts  to  physical  materials,  is  unsj^eak- 
able.  Looking  upon  the  Greek  marble,  we  become  acquainted, 
almost  insensibly,  with  the  character  of  the  Greek  life  and 
literature.  That  Aristides,  that  Genius  of  Death,  that  frag- 
ment of  the  unrivalled  Psyche,  are  worth  a  thousand  Scaligers ! 

"  Do  you  ever  look  at  the  Latin  translation  when  you  read 
^schylus?"  said  a  schoolboy  once  to  Cleveland. 

"That  is  my  Latin  translation,"  said  Cleveland,  pointing  to 
the  Laocoon. 

The  library  opened  at  the  extreme  end  to  a  small  cabinet 
for  curiosities  and  medals,  which,  still  in  a  straight  line,  con- 
ducted to  a  long  belvidere  terminating  in  a  little  circular 
summer-house  that  by  a  sudden  wind  of  the  lake  below,  hung 
perpendicularly  over  its  transparent  tide,  and  seen  from  the 
distance,  appeared  almost  suspended  on  air,  so  light  were  its 
slender  columns  and  arching  dome.  Another  door  from  the 
library  opened  upon  a  corridor  which  conducted  to  the  prin- 
cipal sleeping-chambers ;  the  nearest  door  was  that  of  Cleve- 
land's private  study,  communicating  with  his  bedroom  and 
dressing-closet.  The  other  rooms  were  appropriated  to,  and 
named  after,  his  several  friends. 

Mr.  Cleveland  had  been  advised  by  a  hasty  line  of  the 
movements  of  his  ward,  and  he  received  the  young  man  with 
a  smile  of  welcome,  though  his  eyes  were  moist  and  his  lips 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  59 

trembled ;  for  the  boy  was  like  bis  father !  A  new  generation 
had  commenced  for  Cleveland ! 

*'  Welcome,  my  dear  Ernest, "  said  he ;  "I  am  so  glad  to  see 
you  that  I  will  not  scold  you  for  your  mysterious  absence. 
This  is  your  room, — you  see  your  name  over  the  door;  it  is  a 
larger  one  than  you  used  to  have,  for  you  are  a  man  now. 
And  there  is  your  German  sanctum  adjoining, —  for  Schiller 
and  the  meerschaum,  A  bad  habit  that,  the  meerschaum,  but 
not  worse  than  the  Schiller,  perhaps !  You  see  you  are  in  the 
peristyle  immediately.  The  meerschaum  is  good  for  flowers, 
I  fancy,  so  have  no  scruple.  Why,  my  dear  boy,  how  pale 
you  are !  Be  cheered,  be  cheered !  Well,  I  must  go  myself, 
or  you  will  infect  me." 

Cleveland  hurried  away;  he  thought  of  his  lost  friend. 
Ernest  sank  upon  the  first  chair,  and  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands.  Cleveland's  valet  entered  and  bustled  about  and  un- 
packed the  portmanteau  and  arranged  the  evening  dress.  But 
Ernest  did  not  look  up  nor  speak;  the  first  bell  sounded;  the 
second  tolled  unheard  upon  his  ear.  He  was  thoroughly  over- 
come by  his  emotions.  The  first  notes  of  Cleveland's  kind 
voice  had  touched  upon  a  soft  chord  that  months  of  anxiety 
and  excitement  had  strained  to  anguish,  but  had  never  woke 
to  tears.  His  nerves  were  shattered, — those  strong  young 
nerves!  He  thought  of  his  dead  father  when  he  first  saw 
Cleveland ;  but  when  he  glanced  round  the  room  prepared  for 
him,  and  observed  the  care  for  his  comfort  and  the  tender 
recollection  of  his  most  trifling  peculiarities  everywhere  visi- 
ble, Alice,  the  watchful,  the  humble,  the  loving,  the  lost 
Alice  rose  before  him.  Surprised  at  his  ward's  delay,  Cleve- 
land entered  the  room;  there  sat  Ernest  still,  his  face  buried 
in  his  hands.  Cleveland  drew  them  gently  away,  and  Mal- 
travers  sobbed  like  an  infant.  It  was  an  easy  matter  to  bring 
tears  to  the  eyes  of  that  young  man ;  a  generous  or  a  tender 
thought,  an  old  song,  the  simplest  air  of  music,  sufficed  for 
that  touch  of  the  mother's  nature.  But  the  vehement  and 
awful  passion  which  belongs  to  manhood  when  thoroughly 
unmanned, —  this  was  the  first  time  in  which  the  relief  of 
that  stormy  bitterness  was  known  to  him! 


60  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

Musing  full  sadly  in  his  sullen  mind.  —  Spenser. 

There  forth  issued  from  under  the  altar-smoke 
A  dreadful  fiend.  —  Spensek. 

Nine  times  out  of  ten  it  is  over  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  that 
we  pass  the  narrow  gulf  from  Youth  to  Manhood.  That  in- 
terval is  usually  occupied  by  an  ill-placed  or  disappointed 
affection.  We  recover,  and  we  find  ourselves  a  new  being. 
The  intellect  has  been  hardened  by  the  fire  through  which  it 
has  passed.  The  mmd  profits  by  the  wrecks  of  every  passion, 
and  we  may  measure  our  road  to  wisdom  by  the  sorrows  we 
have  undergone. 

But  Maltravers  was  yet  on  the  bridge,  and  for  a  time,  both 
mind  and  body  were  prostrate  and  enfeebled.  Cleveland  had 
the  sagacity  to  discover  that  the  affections  had  their  share  in 
the  change  that  he  grieved  to  witness,  but  he  had  also  the 
delicacy  not  to  force  himself  into  the  young  man's  confidence. 
But  by  little  and  little  his  kindness  so  completely  penetrated 
the  heart  of  his  ward  that  Ernest  one  evening  told  his  whole 
tale.  As  a  man  of  the  world,  Cleveland  perhaps  rejoiced 
that  it  was  no  worse,  for  he  had  feared  some  existing  entan- 
glement, perhaps  with  a  married  woman.  But  as  a  man  who 
was  better  than  the  world  in  general,  he  sympathized  with 
the  unfortunate  girl  whom  Ernest  pictured  to  him  in  faithful 
and  unflattered  colours,  and  he  long  forbore  consolations 
which  he  foresaw  would  be  unavailing.  He  felt,  indeed,  that 
Ernest  was  not  a  man  "  to  betray  the  noon  of  manhood  to  a 
myrtle-shade;"  that  with  so  sanguine,  buoyant,  and  hardy  a 
temperament,  he  would  at  length  recover  from  a  depression 
which,  if  it  could  bequeath  a  warning,  might  as  well  not  be 
wholly  divested  of  remorse.  And  he  also  knew  that  few  be- 
come either  great  authors  or  great  men  (and  he  fancied  Ernest 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  61 

was  born  to  be  one  or  the  other)  without  the  fierce  emotions 
and  passionate  struggles  through  which  the  Wilhelm  Meister 
of  real  life  must  work  out  his  apprenticeship  and  attain  the 
Master  Rank.  But  at  last  he  had  serious  misgivings  about 
the  health  of  his  ward.  A  constant  and  spectral  gloom 
seemed  bearing  the  young  man  to  the  grave.  It  was  in  vain 
that  Cleveland,  who  secretly  desired  him  to  thirst  for  a  pub- 
lic career,  endeavoured  to  arouse  his  ambition;  the  boy's 
spirit  seemed  quite  broken,  and  the  visit  of  a  political  char- 
acter, the  mention  of  a  political  work,  drove  him  at  once  into 
his  solitary  chamber.  At  length  his  mental  disease  took  a 
new  turn.  He  became,  of  a  sudden,  most  morbidly  and  fanat- 
ically—  I  was  about  to  say  religious;  but  that  is  not  the 
word:  let  me  call  it  pseudo-religious.  His  strong  sense  and 
cultivated  taste  did  not  allow  him  to  delight  in  the  raving 
tracts  of  illiterate  fanatics;  and  yet  out  of  the  benign  and 
simple  elements  of  the  Scripture  he  conjured  up  for  himself  a 
fanaticism  quite  as  gloomy  and  intense.  He  lost  sight  of 
God  the  Father,  and  night  and  day  dreamed  only  of  God  the 
Avenger.  His  vivid  imagination  was  perverted  to  raise  out 
of  its  own  abyss  phantoms  of  colossal  terror.  He  shuddered 
aghast  at  his  own  creations,  and  earth  and  heaven  alike  seemed 
black  with  the  everlasting  wrath.  These  symptoms  completely 
baffled  and  perplexed  Cleveland.  He  knew  not  what  remedy 
to  administer;  and  to  his  unspeakable  grief  and  surprise  he 
found  that  Ernest,  in  the  true  spirit  of  his  strange  bigotry, 
began  to  regard  Cleveland  —  the  amiable,  the  benevolent 
Cleveland  —  as  one  no  less  out  of  the  pale  of  grace  than  him- 
self. His  elegant  pursuits,  his  cheerful  studies,  were  consid- 
ered by  the  young  but  stern  enthusiast  as  the  miserable 
recreations  of  Mammon  and  the  world.  There  seemed  every 
probability  that  Ernest  Maltravers  would  die  in  a  madhouse, 
or,  at  best,  succeed  to  the  delusions  without  the  cheerful 
intervals  of  Cowper. 


62  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

Sagacious,  bold,  and  turbulent  of  wit, 

Restless,  unfixed  in  principles  and  place.  —  Dktden. 

Whoever  acquires  a  very  great  number  of  ideas  interesting  to  the  so- 
ciety in  which  he  lives,  will  be  regarded  in  that  society  as  a  man  of 
abilities.  —  Helvetius. 

It  was  just  when  Ernest  Maltravers  was  so  bad  that  he 
could  not  be  worse  that  a  young  man  visited  Temple  Grove. 
The  name  of  this  young  man  was  Lumley  Ferrers,  his  age 
was  about  twenty-six,  his  fortune  about  eight  hundred  a  year; 
he  followed  no  profession.  Lumley  Eerrers  had  not  what  is 
usually  called  "genius," — that  is,  he  had  no  enthusiasm; 
and  if  the  word  "talent"  be  properly  interpreted  as  meaning 
the  talent  of  doing  something  better  than  others,  Ferrers  had 
not  much  to  boast  of  on  that  score.  He  had  no  talent  for 
writing,  nor  for  music,  nor  painting,  nor  the  ordinary  round 
of  accomplishments;  neither  at  present  had  he  displayed 
much  of  the  hard  and  useful  talent  for  action  and  business. 
But  Ferrers  had  what  is  often  better  than  either  genius  or 
talent, —  he  had  a  powerful  and  most  acute  mind. 

He  had,  moreover,  great  animation  of  manner,  high  physi- 
cal spirits,  a  witty,  odd,  racy  vein  of  conversation,  deter- 
mined assurance,  and  profound  confidence  in  his  own 
resources.  He  was  fond  of  schemes,  stratagems,  and  plots, 
—  they  amused  and  excited  him ;  his  power  of  sarcasm,  and 
of  argument  too,  was  great,  and  he  usually  obtained  an  aston- 
ishing influence  over  those  with  whom  he  was  brought  in 
contact.  His  high  spirits  and  a  most  happy  frankness  of 
bearing  carried  off  and  disguised  his  leading  vices  of  charac- 
ter, which  were  callousness  to  whatever  was  affectionate,  and 
insensibility  to  whatever  was  moral.  Though  less  learned 
than  Maltravers,  he  was  on  the  whole  a  very  instructed  man. 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  63 

He  mastered  the  surfaces  of  many  sciences,  became  satisfied 
of  their  general  principles,  and  threw  the  study  aside,  never 
to  be  forgotten  (for  his  memory  was  like  a  vice),  but  never  to 
be  prosecuted  any  further.  To  this  he  added  a  general  ac- 
quaintance with  whatever  is  most  generally  acknowledged  as 
standard  in  ancient  or  modern  literature.  What  is  admired 
only  by  a  few,  Lumley  never  took  the  trouble  to  read.  Liv- 
ing amongst  trifles,  he  made  them  interesting  and  novel  by 
his  mode  of  viewing  and  treating  them.  And  here  indeed 
was  a  talent, —  it  was  the  talent  of  social  life;  the  talent  of 
enjoyment  to  the  utmost  with  the  least  degree  of  trouble  to 
himself.  Lumley  Ferrers  was  thus  exactly  one  of  those  men 
whom  everybody  calls  exceedingly  clever,  and  yet  it  would 
puzzle  one  to  say  in  what  he  was  so  clever.  It  was,  indeed, 
that  nameless  power  which  belongs  to  ability,  and  w^hich 
makes  one  man  superior,  on  the  whole,  to  another,  though 
in  many  details  by  no  means  remarkable.  I  think  it  is  Goethe 
who  says,  somewhere,  that  in  reading  the  life  of  the  greatest 
genius,  we  always  find  that  he  was  acquainted  with  some  men 
superior  to  himself,  who  yet  never  attained  to  general  dis- 
tinction. To  the  class  of  these  mystical  superior  men  Lumley 
Ferrers  might  have  belonged;  for  though  an  ordinary  jour- 
nalist would  have  beaten  him  in  the  arts  of  composition,  few 
men  of  genius,  however  eminent,  could  have  felt  themselves 
above  Ferrers  in  the  ready  grasp  and  plastic  vigour  of  nat- 
ural intellect.  It  only  remains  to  be  said  of  this  singular 
young  man,  whose  character  as  yet  was  but  half  developed, 
that  he  had  seen  a  great  deal  of  the  world,  and  could  live  at 
ease  and  in  content  with  all  tempers  and  ranks;  fox-hunters 
or  scholars,  lawyers  or  poets,  patricians  or  parvenus,  it  was 
all  one  to  Lumley  Ferrers. 

Ernest  was,  as  usual,  in  his  own  room  when  he  heard,  along 
the  corridor  without,  all  that  indefinable  bustling  noise  which 
announces  an  arrival.  Next  came  a  most  ringing  laugh,  and 
then  a  sharp,  clear,  vigorous  voice,  that  ran  through  his  ears 
like  a  dagger.  Ernest  was  immediately  aroused  to  all  the 
majesty  of  indignant  sullenness.  He  walked  out  on  the  ter- 
race of  the  portico  to  avoid  the  repetition  of  the  disturbance, 


64  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

and  once  more  settled  back  into  his  broken  and  hypochondri- 
acal reveries.  Pacing  to  and  fro  that  part  of  the  peristyle 
which  occupied  the  more  retired  wing  of  the  house,  with  his 
arms  folded,  his  eyes  downcast,  his  brows  knit,  and  all  the 
angel  darkened  on  that  countenance  which  formerly  looked 
as  if,  like  truth,  it  could  shame  the  devil  and  defy  the  world, 
Ernest  followed  the  evil  thought  that  mastered  him,  through 
the  Valley  of  the  Shadow.  Suddenly  he  was  aware  of  some- 
thing, some  obstacle  which  he  had  not  previously  encoun- 
tered. He  started,  and  saw  before  him  a  young  man  of  plain 
dress,  gentlemanlike  appearance,  and   striking  countenance. 

"Mr.  Maltravers,  I  think,"  said  the  stranger;  and  Ernest 
recognized  the  voice  that  had  so  disturbed  him.  "This  is 
lucky;  we  can  now  introduce  ourselves,  for  I  find  Cleveland 
means  us  to  be  intimate.  Mr.  Lumley  Ferrers,  Mr.  Ernest 
Maltravers.  There,  now,  I  am  the  elder,  so  I  first  offer  my 
hand  and  grin  properly.  People  always  grin  when  they  make 
anew  acquaintance!  Well,  that's  settled.  Which  way  are 
you  walking?  " 

Maltravers  could,  when  he  chose  it,  be  as  stately  as  if  he 
had  never  been  out  of  England.  He  now  drew  himself  up  in 
displeased  astonishment,  extricated  his  hand  from  the  gripe 
of  Ferrers,  and  saying  very  coldl}',  "Excuse  me,  sir,  I  am 
busy, "  stalked  back  to  his  chamber.  He  threw  himself  into 
his  chair,  and  was  presently  forgetful  of  his  late  annoyance, 
when,  to  his  inexpressible  amazement  and  wrath,  he  heard 
again  the  sharp,  clear  voice  close  at  his  elbow. 

Ferrers  had  followed  him  through  the  French  casement 
into  the  room.  "  You  are  busy,  you  say,  my  dear  fellow.  I 
want  to  write  some  letters;  we  sha'n't  interrupt  each  other, 
—  don't  disturb  yourself;  "  and  Ferrers  seated  himself  at  the 
writing-table,  dipped  a  pen  into  the  ink,  arranged  blotting- 
book  and  paper  before  him  in  due  order,  and  was  soon  em- 
ployed in  covering  page  after  page  with  the  most  rapid  and 
hieroglyphical  scrawl  that  ever  engrossed  a  mistress  or  per- 
plexed a  dun. 

"The  presuming  puppy!"  growled  Maltravers,  half  audi- 
bly, but  effectually  roused  from  himself;  and  examining  with 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  65 

some  curiosity  so  cool  an  intruder,  he  was  forced  to  own  that 
the  countenance  of  Ferrers  was  not  that  of  a  puppy. 

A  forehead  compact  and  solid  as  a  block  of  granite  over- 
hung small,  bright,  intelligent  eyes  of  a  light  hazel;  the  feat- 
ures were  handsome,  yet  rather  too  sharp  and  fox-like;  the 
complexion,  though  not  highly-coloured,  was  of  that  hardy, 
healthy  hue  which  generally  betokens  a  robust  constitution 
and  high  animal  spirits;  the  jaw  was  massive,  and  to  a  physi- 
ognomist betokened  firmness  and  strength  of  character;  but 
the  lips,  full  and  large,  were  those  of  a  sensualist,  and  their 
restless  play,  and  habitual  half  smile,  spoke  of  gayety  and 
humour,  though  when  in  repose  there  was  in  them  something 
furtive  and  sinister. 

IVIaltravers  looked  at  him  in  grave  silence;  but  when 
Ferrers,  concluding  his  fourth  letter  before  another  man 
would  have  got  through  his  first  page,  threw  down  the  pen 
and  looked  full  at  Maltravers,  with  a  good-humoured  but 
penetrating  stare,  there  was  something  so  whimsical  in  the 
intruder's  expression  of  face,  and  indeed  in  the  whole  scene, 
that  Maltravers  bit  his  lip  to  restrain  a  smile,  —  the  first  he 
had  known  for  weeks. 

"I  see  you  read,  Maltravers,"  said  Ferrers,  carelessly  turn- 
ing over  the  volumes  on  the  table, —  "all  very  right.  We 
should  begin  life  with  books, —  they  multiply  the  sources  of 
employment;  so  does  capital.  But  capital  is  of  no  use  unless 
we  live  on  the  interest;  books  are  waste  paper  unless  we  spend 
in  action  the  wisdom  we  get  from  thought.  Action,  Mal- 
travers, action, —  that  is  the  life  for  us.  At  our  age  we  have 
passion,  fancy,  sentiment;  we  can't  read  them  away  or  scrib- 
ble them  away;  we  must  live  upon  them  generously,  but 
economically." 

Maltravers  was  struck ;  the  intruder  was  not  the  empty  bore 
he  had  chosen  to  fancy  him.  He  roused  himself  languidly  to 
reply.     ''Life,  Mr.  Ferrers  —  " 

"Stop,  mon  cher,  stop!  Don't  call  me  'Mister; '  we  are  to 
be  friends, —  I  hate  delaying  that  which  must  be,  even  by  a 
superfluous  dissyllable:  you  are  Maltravers,  I  am  Ferrers. 
But  you  were  going  to  talk  about  life.     Suppose  we  live  a 

5 


6Q  ERXEST  MALTRAVERS. 

little  while,  instead  of  talking  about  it.  It  wants  an  hour  to 
dinner :  let  us  stroll  into  the  grounds ;  I  want  to  get  an  appe- 
tite. Besides,  I  like  Nature  when  there  are  no  Swiss  moun- 
tains to  climb  before  one  can  arrive  at  a  prospect.     Allans  !  " 

"  Excuse  —  "  again  began  Maltravers,  half  interested,  half 
annoyed. 

"  I  '11  be  shot  if  I  do.     Come !  " 

Ferrers  gave  Maltravers  his  hat,  wound  his  arm  into  that 
of  his  new  acquaintance,  and  they  were  on  the  broad  terrace 
by  the  lake  before  Ernest  was  aware  of  it. 

How  animated,  how  eccentric,  how  easy  was  Ferrers'  talk 
(for  talk  it  was,  rather  than  conversation,  since  he  had  the 
ball  to  himself) !  Books  and  men  and  things,  he  tossed  them 
about  and  played  with  them  like  shuttlecocks ;  and  then  his 
egotistical  narrative  of  half  a  hundred  adventures,  in  which 
he  had  been  the  hero,  told  so  that  you  laughed  at  him  and 
laughed  with  him. 


CHAPTEE   XVI. 

Now  the  bright  morning  star,  day's  harbinger. 
Comes  dancing  from  the  east.  —  Milton. 

Hitherto  Ernest  had  never  met  with  any  mind  that  had 
exercised  a  strong  influence  over  his  own.  At  home,  at 
school,  at  Gottingen,  everywhere,  he  had  been  the  brilliant 
and  wayward  leader  of  others,  persuading  or  commanding 
wiser  and  older  heads  than  his  own;  even  Cleveland  always 
yielded  to  him,  though  not  aware  of  it.  In  fact,  it  seldom 
happens  that  we  are  very  strongly  influenced  by  those  much 
older  than  ourselves.  It  is  the  senior  of  from  two  to  ten 
years  that  most  seduces  and  enthralls  us.  He  has  the  same 
pursuits,  views,  objects,  pleasures,  but  more  art  and  experi- 
ence in  them  all.  He  goes  with  us  in  the  patli  we  are  or- 
dained to  tread,  but  from  which  the  elder  generation  desires 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  67 

to  warn  us  off.  There  is  very  little  influence  where  there  is 
not  great  sympathy.  It  was  now  an  epoch  in  the  intellectual 
life  of  Maltravers.  He  met  for  the  first  time  with  a  mind 
that  controlled  his  own.  Perhaps  the  physical  state  of  his 
nerves  made  him  less  able  to  cope  with  the  half-bullying,  but 
thoroughly  good-humoured  imperiousness  of  Ferrers.  Every 
day  this  stranger  became  more  and  more  potential  with  Mal- 
travers. Ferrers,  who  was  an  utter  egotist,  never  asked  his 
new  friend  to  give  him  his  confidence;  he  never  cared  three 
straws  about  other  people's  secrets,  unless  useful  to  some  pur- 
pose of  his  own.  But  he  talked  with  so  much  zest  about 
himself, —  about  women  and  pleasure,  and  the  gay,  stirring 
life  of  cities,  —  that  the  young  spirit  of  Maltravers  was  roused 
from  its  dark  lethargy  without  an  effort  of  its  own.  The 
gloomy  phantoms  vanished  gradually;  his  sense  broke  from 
its  cloud ;  he  felt  once  more  that  God  had  given  the  sun  to 
light  the  day,  and  even  in  the  midst  of  darkness  had  called 
up  the  host  of  stars. 

Perhaps  no  other  person  could  have  succeeded  so  speedily 
in  curing  Maltravers  of  his  diseased  enthusiasm.  A  crude  or 
sarcastic  unbeliever  he  would  not  have  listened  to;  a  moder- 
ate and  enlightened  divine  he  would  have  disregarded  as  a 
worldly  and  cunning  adjuster  of  laws  celestial  with  customs 
earthly.  But  Lumley  Ferrers,  who,  when  he  argued,  never 
admitted  a  sentiment  or  a  simile  in  reply,  who  wielded  his 
plain  iron  logic  like  a  hammer,  which,  though  its  metal 
seemed  dull,  kindled  the  ethereal  spark  with  every  stroke, — 
Lumley  Ferrers  was  just  the  man  to  resist  the  imagination 
and  convince  the  reason  of  Maltravers;  and  the  moment  the 
matter  came  to  argument,  the  cure  was  soon  completed :  for 
however  we  may  darken  and  puzzle  ourselves  with  fancies 
and  visions  and  the  ingenuities  of  fanatical  mysticism,  no 
man  can  mathematically  or  syllogistically  contend  that  the 
world  which  a  God  made  and  a  Saviour  visited  was  designed 
to  be  damned. 

And  Ernest  Maltravers  one  night  softly  stole  to  his  room 
and  opened  the  New  Testament  and  read  its  heavenly  morali- 
ties with  purged  eyes;  and  when  he  had  done,  he  fell  upon 


68  ERNEST  MALTKAVERS. 

his  knees  and  prayed  the  Almighty  to  pardon  the  ungrateful 
heart  that,  worse  than  the  Atheist's,  had  confessed  his  exist- 
ence, but  denied  his  goodness.  His  sleep  was  sweet  and  his 
dreams  were  cheerful.  Did  he  rise  to  find  that  the  penitence 
which  had  shaken  his  reason  would  henceforth  suffice  to  save 
his  life  from  all  error?  Alas!  remorse  overstrained  has  too 
often  reactions  as  dangerous;  and  homely  Luther  says  well 
that  "  the  mind,  like  the  drunken  peasant  on  horseback,  when 
propped  on  the  one  side,  nods  and  falls  on  the  other."  All 
that  can  be  said  is  that  there  are  certain  crises  in  life  which 
leave  us  long  weaker,  from  which  the  system  recovers  with 
frequent  revulsion  and  weary  relapse,  but  from  which,  look- 
ing back,  after  years  have  passed  on,  we  date  the  foundation 
of  strength  or  the  cure  of  disease.  It  is  not  to  mean  souls 
that  creation  is  darkened  by  a  fear  of  the  anger  of  Heaven. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

There  are  times  when  we  are  diverted  out  of  errors,  hut  couhl  not  he 
preached  out  of  them.  There  are  practitioners  who  can  cure  us  of  one  dis- 
order, though  in  ordinary  cases  they  be  but  poor  physicians,  — nay,  dangerous 
quaclis,  —  Stephen  Montague. 

LuMLET  Ferrers  had  one  rule  in  life,  and  it  was  this, —  to 
make  all  things  and  all  persons  subservient  to  himself.  And 
Ferrers  now  intended  to  go  abroad  for  some  years.  He 
wanted  a  companion,  for  he  disliked  solitude ;  besides,  a  com- 
panion shared  the  expenses,  —  and  a  man  of  eight  hundred  a 
year,  who  desires  all  the  luxuries  of  life,  does  not  despise  a 
partner  in  the  taxes  to  be  paid  for  them.  Ferrers  at  this 
period  rather  liked  Ernest  than  not;  it  was  convenient  to 
choose  friends  from  those  richer  than  himself,  and  he  re- 
solved, when  he  first  came  to  Temple  Grove,  that  Ernest 
should  be  his  travelling  companion.  This  resolution  formed, 
it  was  very  easy  to  execute  it. 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  69 

Maltravers  was  now  warmly  attached  to  his  new  friend,  and 
eager  for  change.  Cleveland  was  sorry  to  part  with  him, 
but  he  dreaded  a  relapse,  if  the  young  man  were  again  left 
upon  his  hands.  Accordingly,  the  guardian's  consent  was 
obtained,  a  travelling  carriage  was  bought,  and  fitted  up  with 
every  imaginable  imperial  and  malle.  A  Swiss  (half  valet 
and  half  courier)  was  engaged,  one  thousand  a  year  was  al- 
lowed to  Maltravers,  and  one  soft  and  lovely  morning,  towards 
the  close  of  October,  Ferrers  and  Maltravers  found  them- 
selves midway  on  the  road  to  Dover. 

"How  glad  I  am  to  get  out  of  England!"  said  Ferrers. 
"It  is  a  famous  country  for  the  rich;  but  here,  eight  hun- 
dred a  year,  without  a  profession  save  that  of  pleasure,  goes 
upon  pepper  and  salt:  it  is  a  luxurious  competence  abroad." 

*'  I  think  I  have  heard  Cleveland  say  that  you  will  be  rich 
some  day  or  other." 

"  Oh,  yes !  I  have  what  are  called  expectations.  You  must 
know  that  I  have  a  kind  of  settlement  on  two  stools, — the 
"Well-born  and  the  Wealthy  j  but  between  two  stools —  You 
recollect  the  proverb!  The  present  Lord  Saxingham,  once 
plain  Frank  Lascelles,  and  my  father,  Mr.  Ferrers,  were  first 
cousins.  Two  or  three  relations  good-naturedly  died,  and 
Frank  Lascelles  became  an  earl;  the  lands  did  not  go  with 
the  coronet;  he  was  poor,  and  married  an  heiress.  The  lady 
died;  her  estate  was  settled  on  her  only  child, — the  handsom- 
est little  girl  you  ever  saw.  Pretty  Florence,  I  often  wish  I 
could  look  up  to  you!  Her  fortune  will  be  nearly  all  at  her 
own  disposal,  too,  when  she  comes  of  age,  —  now  she  is  in  the 
nursery,  'eating  bread  and  honey.'  My  father,  less  lucky 
and  less  wise  than  his  cousin,  thought  fit  to  marry  a  IMiss 
Templeton,  —  a  nobody.  The  Saxingham  branch  of  the  fam- 
ily politely  dropped  the  acquaintance.  Now,  my  mother  had 
a  brother, —  a  clever,  plodding  fellow,  in  what  is  called  'busi- 
ness;' he  became  richer  and  richer,  but  my  father  and  mother 
died,  and  were  never  the  better  for  it.  And  I  came  of  age, 
and  worth  (I  like  that  expression)  not  a  farthing  more  or  less 
than  this  often-quoted  eight  hundred  pounds  a  year.  My 
rich  uncle  is  married,  but  has  no  children.     I  am,  therefore, 


70  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

heir-presumptive;  but  be  is  a  saint,  and  close,  though  osten- 
tatious. The  quarrel  between  Uncle  Templeton  and  the  Sax- 
inghams  still  continues.  Templeton  is  angry  if  I  see  the 
Saxinghams ;  and  the  Saxinghams  —  my  lord,  at  least  —  is  by 
no  means  so  sure  that  I  shall  be  Templetou's  heir  as  not  to 
feel  a  doubt  lest  I  should  some  day  or  other  sponge  upon  his 
Lordship  for  a  place.  Lord  Saxingham  is  in  the  Administra- 
tion, you  know.  Somehow  or  other,  I  have  an  equivocal, 
amphibious  kind  of  place  in  London  society  which  1  don't 
like:  on  one  side  I  am  a  patrician  connection,  whom  the 
parvenu  branches  always  incline  lovingly  to;  and  on  the 
other  side  I  am  a  half-dependent  cadet,  whom  the  noble 
relations  look  civilly  shy  at.  Some  day,  when  I  grow  tired 
of  travel  and  idleness,  I  shall  come  back  and  wrestle  with 
these  little  difficulties,  conciliate  my  Methodistical  uncle,  and 
grapple  with  my  noble  cousin.  But  now  I  am  fit  for  some- 
thing better  than  getting  on  in  the  world.  Dry  chips,  not 
green  wood,  are  the  things  for  making  a  blaze!  How  slow 
this  fellow  drives!  Hollo,  you  sir,  get  on!  Mind,  twelve 
miles  to  the  hour!  You  shall  have  sixpence  a  mile.  Give 
me  your  purse,  Maltravers;  I  may  as  well  be  cashier,  being 
the  elder  and  the  wiser  man:  we  can  settle  accounts  at  the 
end  of  the  journey.     By  Jove,  what  a  pretty  girl !  " 


BOOK    II. 


0vr)Twv  S'o<ppa  ris  dvOos  exv  iroKvripaTov  i]0r]S, 
Kovcpov  exw  dvfj,hv,  ttoAA'  dreAeo'TO  voe7. 

SiMONiDES  :  In  Vit.  Hum, 

'  He,  of  wide-blooming  youth's  fair  flower  possessed. 
Owns  the  vain  thouglits,  the  heart  that  cannot  rest ! " 


CHAPTER  I. 

Il  y  eut  certainement  quelque  chose  de  singulier  dana  mes  sentiments  pour 
cette  charmaute  femme.^  —  Rousseau. 

It  was  a  brilliant  ball  at  the  Palazzo  of  the  Austrian  em- 
bassy at  Kaples,  and  a  crowd  of  those  loungers,  whether 
young  or  old,  who  attach  themselves  to  the  reigning  beauty, 
was  gathered  round  Madame  de  Ventadour.  Generally  speak- 
ing, there  is  more  caprice  than  taste  in  the  election  of  a  beauty 
to  the  Idalian  throne.  Nothing  disappoints  a  stranger  more 
than  to  see  for  the  first  time  the  woman  to  whom  the  world 
has  given  the  golden  apple.  Yet  he  usually  falls  at  last  into 
the  popular  idolatry,  and  passes  with  inconceivable  rapidity 
from  indignant  scepticism  into  superstitious  veneration.  In 
fact,  a  thousand  things  besides  mere  symmetry  of  feature  go 
to  make  up  the  Cytherea  of  the  hour,  —  tact  in  society,  the 
charm  of  manner,  a  nameless  and  piquant  brilliancy.  Where 
the  world  find  the  Graces  they  proclaim  the  Venus.  Few 
persons  attain  pre-eminent  celebrity  for  anything,  without 
some  adventitious  and  extraneous  circumstances  which  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  thing  celebrated;    some  qualities  or 

1  "  There  certainly  was  sometliing  singular  in  my  sentiments  for  this 
charming  woman." 


72  ERXEST  MALTRAVERS. 

some  circumstances  throw  a  m^^sterious  or  personal  charm 
about  tliem.  "Is  Mr.  So-and-So  really  such  a  genius?"  "Is 
Mrs.  Such-a-One  really  such  a  beauty?"  you  ask  incredu- 
lously. "  Oh,  yes !  "  is  the  answer,  "  Do  you  know  all  alout 
him  or  her?  Such  a  thing  is  said,  or  such  a  thing  has  hap- 
pened." The  idol  is  interesting  in  itself,  and  therefore  its 
leading  and  popular  attribute  is  worshipped. 

Now,  Madame  de  Ventadour  was  at  this  time  the  beauty  of 
Naples ;  and  though  fifty  women  in  the  room  were  handsomer, 
no  one  would  have  dared  to  say  so.  Even  the  women  con- 
fessed her  pre-eminence,  for  she  was  the  most  perfect  dresser 
that  even  France  could  exhibit.  And  to  no  pretensions  do 
ladies  ever  concede  with  so  little  demur  as  those  which  de- 
pend upon  that  feminine  art  which  all  study,  and  in  which 
few  excel.  Women  never  allow  beauty  in  a  face  that  has 
an  odd-looking  bonnet  above  it,  nor  will  the}"  readily  allow 
any  one  to  be  ugly  whose  caps  are  unexceptionable.  Madame 
de  Ventadour  had  also  the  magic  that  results  from  intuitive 
high-breeding,  polished  by  habit  to  the  utmost.  She  looked 
and  moved  the  grande  dame,  as  if  Nature  had  been  employed 
by  Eank  to  make  her  so.  She  was  descended  from  one  of 
the  most  illustrious  houses  of  France ;  had  married  at  sixteen 
a  man  of  equal  birth,  but  old,  dull,  and  pompous,  —  a  carica- 
ture rather  than  a  portrait  of  that  great  French  noblesse,  now 
almost,  if  not  wholly,  extinct.  But  her  virtue  was  without  a 
blemish,  —  some  said  from  pride,  some  said  from  coldness. 
Her  wit  was  keen  and  court-like, — lively,  jet  subdued;  for 
her  French  high-breeding  was  very  different  from  the  lethar- 
gic and  taciturn  imperturbability  of  the  English.  All  silent 
people  can  seem  conventionally  elegant.  A  groom  married  a 
rich  lady;  he  dreaded  the  ridicule  of  the  guests  whom  his 
new  rank  assembled  at  his  table.  An  Oxford  clergyman  gave 
him  this  piece  of  advice :  "  Wear  a  black  coat,  and  hold  your 
tongue!  "  The  groom  took  the  hint,  and  is  always  considered 
one  of  the  most  gentlemanlike  fellows  in  the  county.  Con- 
versation is  the  touchstone  of  the  true  delicacy  and  subtle 
grace  which  make  the  ideal  of  the  moral  mannerism  of  a 
court.      And  there  sat  Madame  de  Ventadour,  a  little  apart 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  73 

from  the  dancers,  with  the  silent  English  dandy  Lord  Taun- 
ton, exquisitely  dressed  and  superbly  tall,  bolt  upright  behind 
her  chair;  and  the  sentimental  German  Baron  von  Schomberg, 
covered  with  orders,  whiskered  and  wigged  to  the  last  hair  of 
perfection,  sighing  at  her  left  hand;  and  the  French  minister, 
shrewd,  bland,  and  eloquent,  in  the  chair  at  her  right;  and 
round  on  all  sides  pressed  and  bowed  and  complimented  a 
crowd  of  diplomatic  secretaries  and  Italian  princes,  whose 
bank  is  at  the  gaming-table,  whose  estates  are  in  their  galler- 
ies, and  who  sell  a  picture,  as  English  gentlemen  cut  down  a 
wood,  whenever  the  cards  grow  gloomy.  The  charming  De 
Ventadour,  she  had  attraction  for  them  all, —  smiles  for  the 
silent,  badinage  for  the  gay,  politics  for  the  Frenchman, 
poetry  for  the  German,  the  eloquence  of  loveliness  for  all! 
She  was  looking  her  best;  the  slightest  possible  tinge  of 
rouge  gave  a  glow  to  her  transparent  complexion,  and  lighted 
up  those  large,  dark,  sparkling  eyes  (with  a  latent  softness 
beneath  the  sparkle)  seldom  seen  but  in  the  French,  and 
widely  distinct  from  the  unintellectual  languish  of  the  Span- 
iard, or  the  full  and  majestic  fierceness  of  the  Italian  gaze. 
Her  dress  of  black  velvet,  and  graceful  hat  with  its  princelj^ 
plume,  contrasted  the  alabaster  whiteness  of  her  arms  and 
neck.  And  what  with  the  eyes,  the  skin,  the  rich  colouring 
of  the  complexion,  the  rosy  lips,  and  the  small  ivory  teeth,  no 
one  would  have  had  the  cold  hypercriticism  to  observe  that 
the  chin  was  too  pointed,  the  mouth  too  wide,  and  the  nose, 
so  beautiful  in  the  front  face,  was  far  from  perfect  in  the 
profile. 

"Pray  was  Madame  in  the  Strada  Nuova  to-day?"  asked 
the  German,  with  as  much  sweetness  in  his  voice  as  if  he 
had  been  vowing  eternal  love. 

"What  else  have  we  to  do  with  our  mornings,  we  women?'' 
replied  Madame  de  Ventadour.  "  Our  life  is  a  lounge,  from 
the  cradle  to  the  grave,  and  our  afternoons  are  but  the  type 
of  our  career.  A  promenade  and  a  crowd, — voild  tout/  We 
never  see  the  world  except  in  an  open  carriage." 

"It  is  the  pleasantest  way  of  seeing  it,"  said  the  French- 
man, dryly. 


74  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

"I  doubt  it;  tlie  worst  fatigue  is  that  which  comes  without 
exercise." 

"Will  you  do  me  the  honour  to  waltz?"  said  the  tall  Eng- 
lish lord,  who  had  a  vague  idea  that  Madame  de  Ventadour 
meant  she  would  rather  dance  than  sit  still.  The  Frenchman 
smiled. 

"Lord  Taunton  enforces  your  own  philosophy,"  said  the 
minister. 

Lord  Taunton  smiled  because  every  one  else  smiled, —  and 
besides,  he  had  beautiful  teeth;  but  he  looked  anxious  for  an 
answer. 

"Not  to-night, —  I  seldom  dance.  Who  is  that  very  pretty 
woman?  What  lovely  complexions  the  English  have!  And 
who,"  continued  Madame  de  Ventadour,  without  waiting  for 
an  answer  to  the  first  question,  "who  is  that  gentleman, —  the 
young  one  I  mean, —  leaning  against  the  door?" 

"What,  with  the  dark  mustache?"  said  Lord  Taunton. 
"He  is  a  cousin  of  mine." 

"Oh,  no!  not  Colonel  Bellfield,  — I  know  him;  how  amus- 
ing he  is !     Ko ;  the  gentleman  I  mean  wears  no  mustache. " 

"Oh,  the  tall  Englishman  with  the  bright  eyes  and  high 
forehead,"  said  the  French  minister.  "He  is  just  arrived, — 
from  the  East,  I  believe." 

"It  is  a  striking  countenance,"  said  Madame  de  Ventadour; 
"there  is  something  chivalrous  in  the  turn  of  the  head. 
Without  doubt.  Lord  Taunton,  he  is  noble  ?  " 

"He  is  what  you  call  nohle,^''  replied  Lord  Taunton, —  "that 
is,  what  we  call  a  'gentleman;  '  his  name  is  Maltravers.  He 
lately  came  of  age,  and  has,  I  believe,  rather  a  good  property." 

"Monsieur  Maltravers, —  only  Monsieur?"  repeated  Ma- 
dame de  Ventadour. 

"Why,"  said  the  French  minister,  "you  understand  that 
the  English  gentilhomme  does  not  require  a  De  or  a  title  to 
distinguish  him  from  the  roturier.^' 

"I  know  that;  but  he  has  an  air  above  a  simple  gentil- 
homme. There  is  something  great  in  his  look,  —  but  it  is  not, 
I  must  own,  the  conventional  greatness  of  rank ;  perhaps  he 
would  have  looked  the  same  had  he  been  born  a  peasant." 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  75 

"You  don't  think  him  handsome?"  said  Lord  Taunton,  al- 
most angrily  (for  he  was  one  of  the  Beauty-men,  and  Beauty - 
men  are  sometimes  jealous). 

"Handsome!  I  did  not  say  that,"  replied  Madame  de 
Ventadour,  smiling;  "  it  is  rather  a  fine  head  than  a  handsome 
face.  Is  he  clever,  I  wonder?  But  all  you  English,  milord, 
are  well  educated." 

"Yes,  profound, —  profound;  we  are  profound,  not  super- 
ficial," replied  Lord  Taunton,  drawing  down  his  wristbands. 

"Will  Madame  de  Ventadour  allow  me  to  present  to  her 
one  of  my  countrymen?"  said  the  English  minister,  ap- 
proaching,—  "Mr.  Maltravers." 

Madame  de  Ventadour  half  smiled  and  half  blushed  as  she 
looked  up  and  saw  bent  admiringly  upon  her  the  proud  and 
earnest  countenance  she  had  remarked. 

The  introduction  made,  a  few  monosyllables  exchanged,  the 
French  diplomatist  rose  and  walked  away  with  the  English 
one.     Maltravers  succeeded  to  the  vacant  chair. 

"Have  you  been  long  abroad?"  asked  Madame  de 
Ventadour. 

"Only  four  years;  yet  long  enough  to  ask  whether  I  should 
not  be  most  abroad  in  England." 

"You  have  been  in  the  East, —  I  envy  you!  And  Greece 
and  Egypt,  —  all  the  associations!  You  have  travelled  back 
into  the  Past;  you  have  escaped,  as  Madame  d'Epinay  wished, 
out  of  civilization  and  into  romance !  " 

"Yet  Madame  d'Epinay  passed  her  own  life  in  making 
pretty  romances  out  of  a  very  agreeable  civilization,"  said 
Maltravers,  smiling. 

"You  know  her  Memoirs,  then?"  said  Madame  de  Venta- 
dour, slightly  colouring.  "  In  the  current  of  a  more  exciting 
literature  few  have  had  time  for  the  second-rate  writings  of  a 
past  century." 

"Are  not  those  second-rate  performances  often  the  most 
charming,"  said  Maltravers,  "when  the  mediocrity  of  the  in- 
tellect seems  almost  as  if  it  were  the  effect  of  a  touching, 
though  too  feeble,  delicacy  of  sentiment?  Madame  d'Epi- 
nay's  Memoirs  are  of  this  character.     She  was  not  a  virtuous 


76  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

woman,  but  she  felt  virtue  and  loved  it;  she  was  not  a  woman 
of  genius,  but  she  was  tremblingly  alive  to  all  the  influences 
of  genius.  Some  persons  seem  born  with  the  temperament 
and  the  tastes  of  genius  without  its  creative  power;  they  have 
its  nervous  system,  but  something  is  wanting  in  the  intellect- 
ual; they  feel  acutely,  yet  express  tamely.  These  persons 
always  have  in  their  character  an  unspeakable  kind  of  pathos. 
A  court  civilization  produces  many  of  them,  and  the  French 
memoirs  of  the  last  century  are  particularly  fraught  with 
such  examples.  This  is  interesting,  —  the  struggle  of  sensi- 
tive minds  against  the  lethargy  of  a  society,  dull,  yet  bril- 
liant, that  glares  them,  as  it  were,  to  sleep.  It  comes  home 
to  us;  for,"  added  Maltravers,  with  a  slight  change  of  voice, 
"how  many  of  us  fancy  we  see  our  own  image  in  the  mirror! '' 

And  where  was  the  German  baron?  Flirting  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room.  And  the  English  lord?  Dropping  mono- 
syllables to  dandies  by  the  doorway.  And  the  minor  satel- 
lites? Dancing,  whispering,  making  love,  or  sipping 
lemonade.  And  Madame  de  Ventadour  was  alone  with  the 
young  stranger  in  a  crowd  of  eight  hundred  persons;  and 
their  lips  spoke  of  sentiment,  and  their  eyes  involuntarily 
applied  it! 

While  they  were  thus  conversing,  Maltravers  was  suddenly 
startled  by  hearing  close  behind  him  a  sharp,  significant  voice, 
saying  in  French,  '' Hein,  hein!  I've  my  suspicions;  I've 
my  suspicions." 

Madame  de  Ventadour  looked  round  with  a  smile.  "It  is 
only  my  husband,"  said  she,  quietly;  "let  me  introduce  him 
to  you." 

Maltravers  rose  and  bowed  to  a  little  thin  man  most  elabor- 
ately dressed,  and  with  an  immense  pair  of  spectacles  upon  a 
long,  sharp  nose. 

'"Charmed  to  make  your  acquaintance,  sir!'*  said  M.  de 
Ventadour.  "Have  you  been  long  in  Naples?  Beautiful 
weather, —  won't  last  long;  hein,  hein.  I've  my  suspicions! 
No  news  as  to  your  parliament, —  be  dissolved  soon!  Bad 
opera  in  London  this  year!  Hein,  hein!  I've  my 
suspicions." 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  77 

This  rapid  monologue  was  delivered  with  appropriate  gest- 
ure. Each  new  sentence  M.  de  Ventadour  began  with  a  sort 
of  bow;  and  when  it  dropped  in  the  almost  invariable  conclu- 
sion affirmative  of  his  shrewdness  and  incredulity,  he  made  a 
mystical  sign  with  his  forefinger  by  passing  it  upward  in  a 
parallel  line  with  his  nose,  which  at  the  same  time  performed 
its  own  part  in  the  ceremony  by  thi-ee  convulsive  twitches 
that  seemed  to  shake  the  bridge  to  its  base.  ^ 

Maltravers  looked  with  mute  surprise  upon  the  connubial 
partner  of  the  graceful  creature  by  his  side,  and  i\I.  de  Ven- 
tadour, who  had  said  as  much  as  he  thought  necessary,  wound 
up  his  eloquence  by  expressing  the  rapture  it  would  give  him 
to  see  M.  Maltravers  at  his  hotel.  Then,  turning  to  his  wife, 
he  began  assuring  her  of  the  lateness  of  the  hour  and  the  ex- 
pediency of  departure.  Maltravers  glided  away,  and  as  he 
regained  the  door  was  seized  by  our  old  friend  Lumley 
Ferrers.  "Come,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  the  latter;  "I  have 
been  waiting  for  you  this  half  hour.  Allans  !  But  perhaps, 
as  I  am  dying  to  go  to  bed,  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to 
stay  supper.  Some  people  have  no  regard  for  other  people's 
feelings." 

*'  Xo,  Ferrers,  I  'm  at  your  service ; "  and  the  young  man 
descended  the  stairs  and  passed  along  the  Chiaja  towards 
their  hotel.  As  they  gained  the  broad  and  open  space  on 
which  it  stood,  with  the  lovely  sea  before  them,  sleeping  in 
the  arms  of  the  curving  shore,  Maltravers,  who  had  hitherto 
listened  in  silence  to  the  volubility  of  his  companion,  paused 
abruptly. 

"Look  at  that  sea,  Ferrers!  What  a  scene;  what  delicious 
air!  How  soft  this  moonlight!  Can  you  not  fancy  the  old 
Greek  adventurers,  when  they  first  colonized  this  divine 
Fartheuope,  —  the  darling  of  the  ocean,  —  gazing  along  those 
waves  and  pining  no  more  for  Greece?" 

"  I  cannot  fancy  anything  of  the  sort,"  said  Ferrers.  "  And, 
depend  upon  it,  the  said  gentlemen,  at  this  hour  of  the  night, 
unless  they  were  on  some  piratical  excursion, —  for  they  were 
cursed  ruffians,  those  old  Greek  colonists, —  were  fast  asleep 
in  their  beds." 


78  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

"Did  you  ever  write  poetry,  Ferrers?" 

"To  be  sure;  all  clever  men  have  written  poetry  once  in 
their  lives,  —  small-pox  and  poetry,  they  are  our  two  juvenile 
diseases." 

"And  did  you  qy  ex  feel  poetry?" 

"Feel  it?" 

"  Yes.  If  you  put  the  moon  into  your  verses,  did  you  first 
feel  it  shining  into  your  heart?  " 

"  My  dear  Maltravers,  if  I  put  the  moon  into  my  verses, 
in  all  probability  it  was  to  rhyme  to  'noon.'  '  The  night  was 
at  her  noon '  is  a  capital  ending  for  the  first  hexameter,  and 
the  moon  is  booked  for  the  next  stage.     Come  in." 

"No,  I  shall  stay  out." 

"Don't  be  nonsensical." 

"By  moonlight  there  is  no  nonsense  like  common-sense." 

"What!  we,  who  have  climbed  the  Pyramids,  and  sailed  up 
the  Nile,  and  seen  magic  at  Cairo,  and  been  nearly  murdered, 
bagged,  and  Bosphorized  at  Constantinople, —  is  it  for  us, 
who  have  gone  through  so  many  adventures,  looked  on  so 
many  scenes,  and  crowded  into  four  years  events  that  would 
have  satisfied  the  appetite  of  a  cormorant  in  romance,  if  it 
had  lived  to  the  age  of  a  phoenix,  —  is  it  for  us  to  be  doing 
the  pretty  and  sighing  to  the  moon,  like  a  black-haired  ap- 
prentice without  a  neckcloth  on  board  of  the  Margate  hoy? 
Nonsense,  I  say;  we  have  lived  too  much  not  to  have  lived 
away  our  green  sickness  of  sentiment." 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,  Ferrers,"  said  Maltravers,  smiling. 
"But  I  can  still  enjoy  a  beautiful  night." 

"Oh!  if  you  like  flies  in  your  soup,  as  the  man  said  to  his 
guest,  when  he  carefully  replaced  those  entomological  blacka- 
moors in  the  tureen,  after  helping  himself, —  if  you  like  flies 
in  your  soup,  well  and  good;  buona  notte.^^ 

Ferrers  certainly  was  right  in  his  theory  that  when  we 
have  known  real  adventures  we  grow  less  morbidly  senti- 
mental. Life  is  a  sleep  in  which  we  dream  most  at  the  com- 
mencement and  the  close;  the  middle  part  absorbs  us  too 
much  for  dreams.  But  still,  as  Maltravers  said,  we  can  en- 
joy a  fine  night,  especially  on  the  shores  of  Naples. 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  79 

Maltravers  paced  musingly  to  and  fro  for  some  time.  His 
heart  was  softened,  —  old  rhymes  rang  in  his  ear,  old  memo- 
ries passed  through  his  brain;  but  the  sweet,  dark  eyes  of 
Madame  de  Ventadour  shone  forth  through  every  shadow  of 
the  past.  Delicious  intoxication,  the  draught  of  the  rose- 
coloured  phial, —  which  is  fancy,  but  seems  love! 


CHAPTER  II. 

Then  gan  the  Palmer  thns :  "  Most  wretched  man, 

That  to  affections  dost  the  bridle  lend, 

In  their  beginnings  they  are  weak  and  wan, 

But  soon,  through  suffrance,  growe  to  fearfull  end ; 

While  they  are  weak,  betimes  with  them  contend." 

Spenseb. 

Maltravers  went  frequently  to  the  house  of  Madame  de 
Ventadour;  it  was  open  twice  a  week  to  the  Vv'orld,  and  thrice 
a  week  to  friends.  Maltravers  was  soon  of  the  latter  class. 
Madame  de  Ventadour  had  been  in  England  in  her  childhood, 
for  her  parents  had  been  emigres.  She  spoke  English  well 
and  fluently;  and  this  pleased  Maltravers,  for  though  the 
French  language  was  sufficiently  familiar  to  him,  he  was  like 
most  who  are  more  vain  of  the  mind  than  the  person,  and 
proudly  averse  to  hazarding  his  best  thoughts  in  the  domino 
of  a  foreign  language.  We  don't  care  how  faulty  the  accent 
or  how  incorrect  the  idiom  in  which  we  talk  nothings;  but  if 
we  utter  any  of  the  poetry  within  us,  we  shudder  at  the  risk 
of  the  most  trifling  solecism. 

This  was  especially  the  case  with  Maltravers;  for  besides 
being  now  somewhat  ripened  from  his  careless  boyhood  into 
a  proud  and  fastidious  man,  he  had  a  natural  love  for  the 
Becoming.  This  love  was  unconsciously  visible  in  trifles, — 
it  is  the  natural  parent  of  Good  Taste.  And  it  was  indeed 
an  inborn  good  taste  which  redeemed  Ernest's  natural  care- 


80  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

lessness  in  those  personal  matters  in  which  young  men  usu- 
ally take  a  pride.  An  habitual  and  soldier-like  neatness,  and 
a  love  of  order  and  symmetry,  stood  with  him  in  the  stead  of 
elaborate  attention  to  equipage  and  dress. 

Maltravers  had  not  thought  twice  in  his  life  whether  he 
was  handsome  or  not;  and,  like  most  men  who  have  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  gentler  sex,  he  knew  that  beauty  had  little  to  do 
with  engaging  the  love  of  women.  The  air,  the  manner, 
the  tone,  the  conversation,  the  something  that  interests,  and 
the  something  to  be  proud  of,  —  these  are  the  attributes  of  the 
man  made  to  be  loved.  And  the  Beauty-man  is,  nine  times 
out  of  ten,  little  more  than  the  oracle  of  his  aunts  and  the 
"  Sich  a  love !  "  of  the  housemaids ! 

To  return  from  this  digression :  Maltravers  was  glad  that 
he  could  talk  in  his  own  language  to  Madame  de  Ventadour; 
and  the  conversation  between  them  generally  began  in  French, 
and  glided  away  into  English.  Madame  de  Ventadour  was 
eloquent,  and  so  was  Maltravers;  yet  a  more  complete  con- 
trast in  their  mental  views  and  conversational  peculiarities 
can  scarcely  be  conceived.  Madame  de  Ventadour  viewed 
everything  as  a  woman  of  the  world.  She  was  brilliant, 
thoughtful,  and  not  without  delicacy  and  tenderness  of  senti- 
ment; still,  all  was  cast  in  a  worldly  mould.  She  had  been 
formed  by  the  influences  of  society,  and  her  mind  betrayed  its 
education.  At  once  witty  and  melancholy  (no  uncommon 
union),  she  was  a  disciple  of  the  sad  but  caustic  philosophy 
produced  by  satiety.  In  the  life  she  led,  neither  her  heart 
nor  her  head  was  engaged;  the  faculties  of  both  were  irri- 
tated, not  satisfied  or  employed.  She  felt  somewhat  too 
sensitively  the  hollowness  of  the  great  world,  and  had  a  low 
opinion  of  human  nature.  In  fact,  she  was  a  woman  of  the 
French  memoirs,  —  one  of  those  charming  and  spiritueUe  As- 
pasias  of  the  boudoir  who  interest  us  by  their  subtlety,  tact, 
and  grace,  their  exquisite  tone  of  refinement,  and  are  re- 
deemed from  the  superficial  and  frivolous,  partly  by  a  con- 
summate knowledge  of  the  social  system  in  which  they  move, 
and  partly  by  a  half-concealed  and  touching  discontent  of  the 
trifles  on  which  their  talents  and  affections  are  wasted.    These 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  81 

are  the  women  wlio,  after  a  youth  of  false  pleasure,  often  end 
by  an  old  age  of  false  devotion.  They  are  a  class  peculiar  to 
those  ranks  and  countries  in  which  shines  and  saddens  that 
gay  and  unhappy  thing, —  a  woman  iv'itliout  a  home? 

Now,  this  was  a  specimen  of  life,  this  Valerie  de  Venta- 
dour,  that  Maltravers  had  never  yet  contemplated;  and  Mal- 
travers  was  perhaps  equally  new  to  the  Frenchwoman.  They 
were  delighted  with  each  other's  society,  although  it  so  hap- 
pened that  they  never  agreed. 

Madame  de  Ventadour  rode  on  horseback,  and  Maltravers 
was  one  of  her  usual  companions.  And  oh,  the  beautiful 
landscapes  through  which  their  daily  excursions  lay ! 

Maltravers  was  an  admirable  scholar.  The  stores  of  the 
immortal  dead  were  as  familiar  to  him  as  his  own  language. 
The  poetry,  the  philosophy,  the  manner  of  thought  and  hab- 
its of  life  of  the  graceful  Greek  and  the  luxurious  Roman 
were  a  part  of  knowledge  that  constituted  a  common  and 
household  portion  of  his  own  associations  and  peculiarities 
of  thought.  He  had  saturated  his  intellect  with  the  Pactolus 
of  old,  and  the  grains  of  gold  came  down  from  the  classic 
Tmolus  with  every  tide.  This  knowledge  of  the  dead,  often 
so  useless,  has  an  inexpressible  charm  when  it  is  applied  to 
the  places  where  the  dead  lived.  We  care  nothing  about  the 
ancients  on  Highgate  Hill;  but  at  Baise,  Pompeii,  by  the 
Virgilian  Hades,  the  ancients  are  society  with  which  we 
thirst  to  be  familiar.  To  the  animated  and  curious  French- 
woman what  a  cicerone  was  Ernest  Maltravers !  How  eagerly 
she  listened  to  accounts  of  a  life  more  elegant  than  that  of 
Paris;  of  a  civilization  which  the  world  never  can  know 
again!  So  much  the  better;  for  it  was  rotten  at  the  core, 
though  most  brilliant  in  the  complexion.  Those  cold  names 
and  unsubstantial  shadows  which  Madame  de  Ventadour  had 
been  accustomed  to  yawn  over  in  skeleton  histories,  took 
from  the  eloquence  of  Maltravers  the  breath  of  life;  they 
glowed  and  moved;  they  feasted  and  made  love, —  were  wise 
and  foolish,  merry  and  sad,  like  living  things.  On  the  other 
hand,  Maltravers  learned  a  thousand  new  secrets  of  the  exist- 
ing and  actual  world  from  the  lips  of  the  accomplished  and 


82  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

observant  Valerie.  What  a  new  step  in  the  philosophy  of  life 
does  a  young  man  of  genius  make  when  he  first  compares  his 
theories  and  experience  with  the  intellect  of  a  clever  woman 
of  the  world!  Perhaps  it  does  not  elevate  him,  but  how  it 
enlightens  and  refines!  What  numberless  minute  yet  im- 
portant mysteries  in  human  character  and  practical  wisdom 
does  he  drink  unconsciously  from  the  sparkling  lursiflage 
of  such  a  companion !  Our  education  is  hardly  ever  complete 
without  it. 

"And  so  you  think  these  stately  Romans  were  not,  after 
all,  so  dissimilar  to  ourselves?"  said  Valerie  one  day,  as  they 
looked  over  the  same  earth  and  ocean  along  which  had  roved 
the  eyes  of  the  voluptuous  but  august  Lucullus. 

"  In  the  last  days  of  their  Republic,  a  coiip-d^oeil  of  their 
social  date  might  convey  to  us  a  general  notion  of  our  own. 
Their  system  like  ours, —  a  vast  aristocracy,  heaved  and  agi- 
tated, but  kept  ambitious  and  intellectual  by  the  great  demo- 
cratic ocean  which  roared  below  and  around  it.  An  immense 
distinction  between  rich  and  poor, —  a  nobility  sumptuous, 
wealthy,  cultivated,  yet  scarcely  elegant  or  refined;  a  people 
with  mighty  aspirations  for  more  perfect  liberty,  but  always 
liable,  in  a  crisis,  to  be  influenced  and  subdued  by  a  deep- 
rooted  veneration  for  the  very  aristocracy  against  which 
they  struggled.  A  ready  opening  through  all  the  walls  of 
custom  and  privilege  for  every  description  of  talent  and  am- 
bition, but  so  strong  and  universal  a  respect  for  wealth  that 
the  finest  spirit  grew  avaricious,  griping,  and  corrupt,  almost 
unconsciously;  and  the  man  who  rose  from  the  people  did  not 
scruple  to  enrich  himself  out  of  the  abuses  he  affected  to  la- 
ment; and  the  man  who  would  have  died  for  his  country  could 
not  help  thrusting  his  hands  into  her  pockets.  Cassius,  the 
stubborn  and  thoughtful  patriot,  with  his  heart  of  iron,  had, 
you  remember,  an  itching  palm.  Yet  what  a  blow  to  all  the 
hopes  and  dreams  of  a  world  was  the  overthrow  of  the  free 
party  after  the  death  of  Caesar!  What  generations  of  free- 
men fell  at  Philippi!  In  England,  perhaps,  we  may  have 
ultimately  the  same  struggle;  in  France,  too  (perhaps  a 
larger  stage,  with  far  more  inflammable  actors),  we  already 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  83 

perceive  the  same  war  of  elements  which  shook  Rome  to  her 
centre,  which  finally  replaced  the  generous  Julius  with  the 
hypocritical  Augustus,  which  destroyed  the  colossal  patri- 
cians to  make  way  for  the  glittering  dwarfs  of  a  court,  and 
cheated  the  people  out  of  the  substance  with  the  shadow  of 
liberty.  How  it  may  end  in  the  modern  world,  who  shall 
say?  But  while  a  nation  has  already  a  fair  degree  of  consti- 
tutional freedom,  I  believe  no  struggle  so  perilous  and  awful 
as  that  between  the  aristocratic  and  the  democratic  principle. 
A  people  against  a  despot, —  that  contest  requires  no  prophet; 
but  the  change  from  an  aristocratic  to  a  democratic  common- 
wealth is  indeed  the  wide,  unbounded  prospect  upon  which 
rest  shadows,  clouds,  and  darkness.  If  it  fail, —  for  cen- 
turies is  the  dial-hand  of  Time  put  back;  if  it  succeed  —  " 
Maltravers  paused. 

"And  if  It  succeed?"  said  Valerie. 

"Why,  then,  man  will  have  colonized  Utopia!"  replied 
Maltravers. 

"But  at  least,  in  modern  Europe,"  he  continued,  "there 
will  be  fair  room  for  the  experiment.  For  we  have  not  that 
curse  of  slavery  which,  more  than  all  else,  vitiated  every  sys- 
tem of  the  ancients,  and  kept  the  rich  and  the  poor  alternately 
at  war;  and  we  have  a  Press,  which  is  not  only  the  safety- 
vah^e  of  the  passions  of  every  party,  but  the  great  note-book 
of  the  experiments  of  every  hour,  —  the  homely,  the  invalua- 
ble ledger  of  losses  and  of  gains.  No;  the  people  who  keep 
that  tablet  well,  never  can  be  bankrupt.  And  the  society 
of  those  old  Romans, —  their  daily  passions,  occupations,  hu- 
mours,—  why,  the  satire  of  Horace  is  the  glass  of  our  own 
follies;  we  may  fancy  his  easy  pages  written  in  the  Chaussee 
d'Antin  or  Mayfair.  But  there  was  one  thing  that  will  ever 
keep  the  ancient  world  dissimilar  from  the  modern." 

"And  what  is  that?" 

"The  ancients  knew  not  that  delicacy  in  the  affections 
which  characterizes  the  descendants  of  the  Goths,"  said  Mal- 
travers, and  liis  voice  slightly  trembled;  "they  gave  up  to 
the  monopoly  of  the  senses  what  ought  to  have  had  an  equal 
share  in  the  reason  and  the  imacfination.     Their  love  was  a 


84  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

beautiful  and  wanton  butterfly,  but  not  the  butterfly  which  is 
the  emblem  of  the  soul." 

Valerie  sighed.  She  looked  timidly  into  the  face  of  the 
young  philosopher;  but  his  eyes  were  averted. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  after  a  short  pause,  "we  pass  our 
lives  more  happily  without  love  than  with  it.  And  in  our 
modern  social  system,"  she  continued  thoughtfully,  and  with 
profound  truth,  though  it  is  scarcely  the  conclusion  to  which 
a  woman  often  arrives,  "I  think  we  have  pampered  Love  to 
too  great  a  preponderance  over  the  other  excitements  of  life. 
As  children,  we  are  taught  to  dream  of  it;  in  youth,  our 
books,  our  conversation,  our  plays,  are  filled  with  it.  We 
are  trained  to  consider  it  the  essential  of  life;  and  yet,  the 
moment  we  come  to  actual  experience,  the  moment  we  indulge 
this  inculcated  and  stimulated  craving,  nine  times  out  of  ten 
we  find  ourselves  wretched  and  undone.  Ah!  believe  me, 
Mr.  Maltravers,  this  is  not  a  world  in  which  we  should  preach 
up  too  far  the  philosophy  of  Love." 

"And  does  Madame  de  Ventadour  speak  from  experience?" 
asked  Maltravers,  gazing  earnestly  upon  the  changing  coun- 
tenance of  his  companion. 

"No;  and  I  trust  that  I  never  may!"  said  Valerie,  with 
great  energy. 

Ernest's  lip  curled  slightly,  for  his  pride  was  touched. 

"  I  could  give  up  many  dreams  of  the  future, "  said  he,  "  to 
hear  Madame  de  Ventadour  revoke  that  sentiment." 

"We  have  outridden  our  companions,  Mr.  Maltravers,"  said 
Valerie,  coldly,  and  she  reined  in  her  horse.  "Ah,  Mr. 
Ferrers,"  she  continued,  as  Lumley  and  the  handsome  Ger- 
man baron  now  joined  her,  "you  are  too  gallant;  I  see  you 
imply  a  delicate  compliment  to  my  horsemanship  when  you 
wish  me  to  believe  you  cannot  keep  up  with  me:  Mr.  Mal- 
travers is  not  so  polite." 

"Nay,"  returned  Ferrers,  who  rarely  threw  away  a  compli- 
ment without  a  satisfactory  return, —  "nay,  you  and  ]\Laltrav- 
ers  appeared  lost  among  the  old  Romans ;  and  our  friend  the 
baron  took  that  opportunity  to  tell  me  of  all  the  ladies  who 
adore  him." 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  85 

**  Ah,  Monsieur  Ferrare,  que  vous  etes  malin!  "  said  Schoui- 
berg,  looking  very  much  coufusecl. 

^^ Malin!  no;  I  spoke  from  no  envy, —  1  never  was  adored, 
thank  Heaven!     What  a  bore  it  must  be!  " 

"  I  congratulate  you  on  the  sympathy  between  yourself  and 
Ferrers,"  whispered  Maltravers  to  Valerie. 

Valerie  laughed;  but  during  the  rest  of  the  excursion  she 
remained  thoughtful  and  absent,  and  for  some  days  their 
rides  were  discontinued.  Madame  de  Ventadour  was  not 
well. 


CHAPTEE  III. 

O  Love  !  forsake  me  not  ; 
Mine  were  a  lone,  dark  lot, 
Bereft  of  thee. 

Hemans  :   Genius  singing  to  Love. 

I  FEAR  that  as  yet  Ernest  Maltravers  had  gained  little  from 
Experience,  except  a  few  current  coins  of  worldly  wisdom 
(and  not  very  valuable  those!),  while  he  had  lost  much  of 
that  nobler  wealth  with  which  youthful  enthusiasm  sets  out 
on  the  journey  of  life.  Experience  is  an  open  giver,  but  a 
stealthy  thief.  There  is,  however,  this  to  be  said  in  her 
favour,  that  we  retain  her  gifts ;  and  if  ever  we  demand  resti- 
tution in  earnest,  'tis  ten  to  one  but  what  we  recover  her 
thefts.  Maltravers  had  lived  in  lands  where  public  opinion 
is  neither  strong  in  its  influence,  nor  rigid  in  its  canons;  and 
that  does  not  make  a  man  better.  Moreover,  thrown  head- 
long amidst  the  temptations  that  make  the  first  ordeal  of 
youth,  with  ardent  passions  and  intellectual  superiority,  he 
had  been  led  by  the  one  into  many  errors,  from  the  conse- 
quences of  which  the  other  had  delivered  him;  the  necessity 
of  roughing  it  through  the  world — of  resisting  fraud  to-day, 
and  violence  to-morrow  —  had  hardened  over  the  surface  of 
his  heart,  though  at  bottom  the  springs  were  still  fresh  and 


86  ERXEST   MALTRAVERS. 

living.  He  had  lost  much  of  his  chivalrous  veneration  for 
women,  for  he  had  seen  them  less  often  deceived  than  deceiv- 
ing. Again,  too,  the  last  iew  years  had  been  spent  without 
any  high  aims  or  fixed  pursuits.  Maltravers  had  beeii  living 
on  the  capital  of  his  faculties  and  affections  in  a  wasteful, 
speculating  spirit.  It  is  a  bad  thing  for  a  clever  and  ardent 
man  not  to  have  from  the  onset  some  paramount  object  of 
life. 

All  this  considered,  we  can  scarcely  wonder  that  Maltravers 
should  have  fallen  into  an  involuntary  system  of  pursuing  his 
own  amusements  and  pursuits,  without  much  forethought  of 
the  harm  or  the  good  they  were  to  do  to  others  or  himself. 
The  moment  we  lose  forethought,  we  lose  sight  of  duty;  and 
though  it  seems  like  a  paradox,  we  can  seldom  be  careless 
without  being  selfish. 

In  seeking  the  society  of  Madame  de  Ventadour,  Maltravers 
obeyed  but  the  mechanical  impulse  that  leads  the  idler  to- 
wards the  companionship  which  most  pleases  his  leisure.  He 
was  interested  and  excited:  and  Valerie's  manners,  which  to- 
day flattered,  and  to-morrow  piqued  him,  enlisted  his  vanity 
and  pride  on  the  side  of  his  fancy.  But  although  M.  de 
Ventadour,  a  frivolous  and  profligate  Frenchman,  seemed 
utterly  indifferent  as  to  what  his  wife  chose  to  do, — and  in 
the  society  in  which  Valerie  lived,  almost  every  lady  had  her 
cavalier,  —  yet  Maltravers  would  have  started  with  incredul- 
ity or  dismay  had  any  one  accused  him  of  a  systematic  design 
on  her  affections.  But  he  was  living  with  the  world,  and  the 
world  affected  him  as  it  almost  always  does  every  one  else. 
Still,  he  had  at  times  in  his  heart  the  feeling  that  he  was  not 
fulfilling  his  proper  destiny  and  duties;  and  when  he  stole 
from  the  brilliant  resorts  of  an  unworthy  and  heartless  pleas- 
ure, he  was  ever  and  anon  haunted  by  his  old  familiar  aspi- 
rations for  the  Beautiful,  the  Virtuous,  and  the  Great. 
However,  hell  is  paved  with  good  intentions;  and  so,  in  the 
mean  while,  Ernest  Maltravers  surrendered  himself  to  the 
delicious  presence  of  Valerie  de  Ventadour. 

One  evening  Maltravers,  Ferrers,  the  French  minister,  a 
pretty  Italian,  and  the  Princess  di made  the  whole  party 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  87 

collected  at  Madame  de  Ventadour's.  The  conversation  fell 
upon  one  of  tlie  tales  of  scandal  relative  to  English  persons, 
so  common  on  the  Continent. 

**Is  it  true,  Monsieur,"  said  the  French  minister,  gravely, 
to  Lumley,  "that  your  countrymen  are  much  more  immoral 
than  other  people?  It  is  very  strange,  but  in  every  town  1 
enter,  there  is  always  some  story  in  which  les  uingUtis  are 
the  heroes.  I  hear  nothing  of  French  scandal,  nothing  of 
Italian;  totijours  les  Anglais.^'' 

"Because  we  are  shocked  at  these  things,  and  make  a  noise 
about  them,  while  you  take  them  quietly.  Vice  is  our  epi- 
sode,—  your  epic." 

*'I  suppose  it  is  so,"  said  the  Frenchman,  with  affected  se- 
riousness. "  If  we  cheat  at  play,  or  flirt  with  a  fair  lady,  we 
do  it  with  decorum,  and  our  neighbours  think  it  no  business 
of  theirs.  But  you  treat  every  frailty  you  find  in  your  coun- 
trymen as  a  public  concern,  to  be  discussed  and  talked  over 
and  exclaimed  against  and  told  to  all  the  world." 

"I  like  the  system  of  scandal,"  said  Madame  de  Ventadour, 
abruptly;  "say  what  you  will,  the  policy  of  fear  keeps  many 
of  us  virtuous.  Sin  might  not  be  odious  if  we  did  not  tremble 
at  the  consequence  even  of  appearances." 

"Jlein,  hein  /  "  grunted  M.  de  Ventadour,  shuffling  into 
the  room.  "How  are  you?  How  are  you?  Charmed  to  see 
you!  Dull  night;  I  suspect  we  shall  have  rain.  Hein,hein! 
Aha,  Monsieur  Ferrers,  comment  ga  va-t-il?  Will  you  give 
me  my  revenge  at  ^carte  ?  I  have  my  suspicions  that  I  am  in 
luck  to-night.     Hein,  hein  !  " 

'■'■  tlcarte!     Well,  with  pleasure,"  said  Ferrers. 

Ferrers  played  well. 

The  conversation  ended  in  a  moment.  The  little  party 
gathered  round  the  table, —  all  except  Valerie  and  Maltravers. 
The  chairs  that  were  vacated  left  a  kind  of  breach  between 
them;  but  still  they  were  next  to  each  other,  and  they  felt 
embarrassed,  for  they  felt  alone. 

"Do  you  never  play?"  asked  Madame  de  Ventadour,  after 
a  pause. 

"I  have  played,"  said  Maltravers,  "and  I  know  the  temp- 


»»  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

tation;  I  dare  not  play  now.  I  love  the  excitement,  but  I 
have  been  humbled  at  the  debasement, —  it  is  a  moral  drunk- 
enness that  is  worse  than  the  physical." 

**  You  speak  warmly." 

"  Because  I  feel  keenly.  I  once  won  of  a  man  I  respected, 
who  was  poor.  His  agony  was  a  dreadful  lesson  to  me.  I 
went  home,  and  was  terrified  to  think  I  had  felt  so  much 
pleasure  in  the  pain  of  another.  I  have  never  played  since 
that  night." 

"So  young  and  so  resolute!  "  said  Valerie,  with  admiration 
in  her  voice  and  eyes;  "you  are  a  strange  person.  Others 
would  have  been  cured  by  losing, —  you  were  cured  by  win- 
ning. It  is  a  fine  thing  to  have  principle  at  your  age,  Mr. 
Maltravers." 

"I  fear  it  was  rather  pride  than  principle,"  said  Maltravers. 
"Error  is  sometimes  sweet;  but  there  is  no  anguish  like  an 
error  of  which  we  feel  ashamed.  I  cannot  submit  to  blush 
for  myself." 

"Ah!"  muttered  Valerie,  "this  is  the  echo  of  my  own 
heart!"  She  rose  and  went  to  the  window.  Maltravers 
paused  a  moment,  and  followed  her.  Perhaps  he  half  thought 
there  was  an  invitation  in  the  movement. 

There  lay  before  them  the  still  street,  with  its  feeble  and 
unfrequent  lights;  beyond,  a  few  stars,  struggling  through 
an  atmosphere  unusually  clouded,  brought  the  murmuring 
ocean  partially  into  sight.  Valerie  leaned  against  the  wall, 
and  the  draperies  of  the  window  veiled  her  from  all  the 
guests  save  Maltravers;  and  between  her  and  himself  was  a 
large  marble  vase  filled  Avith  flowers;  and  by  that  uncertain 
light  Valerie's  brilliant  cheek  looked  pale  and  soft  and 
thoughtful.  Maltravers  never  before  felt  so  much  in  love 
with  the  beautiful  Frenchwoman. 

"Ah,  Madame!"  said  he,  softly,  "there  is  one  error,  if  it 
be  so,  that  never  can  cost  me  shame." 

"Indeed!"  said  Valerie,  with  an  unaffected  start,  for  she 
was  not  aware  he  was  so  near  her.  As  she  spoke,  she  began 
plucking  (it  is  a  woman's  common  trick)  the  flowers  from  the 
vase  between  her  and  Ernest.     That  small,  delicate,  almost 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  89 

transi)arent  hand!  Maltravers  gazed  upon  the  hand,  then  on 
the  countenance,  then  on  the  hand  again.  The  scene  swam 
before  him,  and  invokmtarily  and  as  by  an  irresistible  im- 
pulse, the  next  moment  that  hand  was  in  his  own. 

"Pardon  me,  pardon  me,"  said  he,  falteringly;  "but  that 
error  is  in  the  feelings  that  I  know  for  you." 

Valerie  lifted  on  him  her  large  and  radiant  eyes,  and  made 
no  answer. 

Maltravers  went  on.  "  Chide  me,  scorn  me,  hate  me  if  you 
will, —  Valerie,  1  love  you." 

Valerie  drew  away  her  hand,  and  still  remained  silent. 

"Speak  to  me,"  said  Ernest,  leaning  forward, —  "one  word, 
I  implore  you ;  speak  to  me !  " 

He  paused, —  still  no  reply;  he  listened  breathlessly, —  he 
heard  her  sob.  Yes,  that  proud,  that  wise,  that  lofty  woman 
of  the  world  in  that  moment  was  as  weak  as  the  simplest  girl 
that  ever  listened  to  a  lover.  But  how  different  the  feelings 
that  made  her  weak ;  what  soft  and  what  stern  emotions  were 
blent  together! 

"Mr.  Maltravers,"  she  said,  recovering  her  voice,  though  it 
sounded  hollow,  yet  almost  unnaturally  firm  and  clear,  "the 
die  is  cast,  and  I  have  lost  forever  the  friend  for  whose  hap- 
piness I  cannot  live,  but  for  whose  welfare  I  would  have  died; 
I  should  have  foreseen  this,  but  I  was  blind.  No  more,  no 
more ;  see  me  to-morrow,  and  leave  me  now !  " 

"  But,  Valerie  —  " 

"Ernest  Maltravers,"  said  she,  laying  her  hand  lightly  on 
his  own,  ^^  there  is  no  anguish  like  an  error  of  which  we  feel 
ashamed ! " 

Before  he  could  reply  to  this  citation  from  his  own  aphor- 
ism, Valerie  had  glided  away,  and  was  already  seated  at  the 
card-table  by  the  side  of  the  Italian  princess. 

Maltravers  also  joined  the  group.  He  fixed  his  eyes  on 
Madame  de  Ventadour,  but  her  face  was  calm, —  not  a  trace 
of  emotion  was  discernible.  Her  voice,  her  smile,  her  charm- 
ing and  courtly  manner,  all  were  as  when  he  first  beheld  her. 

"  These  women,  what  hypocrites  they  are !  "  muttered  Mal- 
travers to  himself;   and  his  lip  writhed  into  a  sneer  which 


90  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

had  of  late  often  forced  away  the  serene  and  gracious  expres' 
sion  of  his  earlier  years,  ere  he  knew  what  it  was  to  despise. 
But  Maltravers  mistook  the  woman  he  dared  to  scorn. 

He  soon  withdrew  from  the  palazzo  and  sought  his  hotel. 
There,  while  yet  musing  in  his  dressing-room,  he  was  joined 
by  Ferrers.  The  time  had  passed  when  Ferrers  had  exercised 
an  influence  over  Maltravers ;  the  boy  had  grown  up  to  be  the 
equal  of  the  man  in  the  exercise  of  that  two-edged  sword, — 
the  reason.  And  Maltravers  now  felt,  unalloyed,  the  calm 
consciousness  of  his  superior  genius.  He  could  not  confide  to 
Ferrers  what  had  passed  between  him  and  Valerie.  Luniley 
was  too  hard  for  a  confidant  in  matters  where  the  heart  was 
at  all  concerned.  In  fact,  in  high  spirits,  and  in  the  midst 
of  frivolous  adventures,  Ferrers  was  charming;  but  in  sad- 
ness, or  in  the  moments  of  deep  feeling,  Ferrers  was  one 
whom  you  would  wish  out  of  the  way. 

"You  are  sullen  to-night,  mo7i  cher,'^  said  Lumley,  yawn- 
ing; "I  suppose  you  want  to  go  to  bed.  Some  persons  are  so 
ill-bred,  so  selfish,  they  never  think  of  their  friends.  Kobody 
asks  me  what  I  won  at  &carU.  Don't  be  late  to-morrow, —  I 
hate  breakfasting  alone,  and  /  am  never  later  than  a  quarter 
before  nine;  I  hate  egotistical,  ill-mannered  people.  Good- 
night!" 

With  this,  Ferrers  sought  his  own  room ;  there,  as  he  slowly 
undressed,  he  thus  soliloquized :  "  I  think  I  have  put  this  man 
to  all  the  use  I  can  make  of  him.  We  don't  pull  well  to- 
gether any  longer, —  perhaps  I  myself  am  a  little  tired  of  this 
sort  of  life.  That  is  not  right.  I  shall  grow  ambitious  by 
and  by;  but  I  think  it  a  bad  calculation  not  to  make  the 
most  of  youth.  At  four  or  five  and  thirty  it  will  be  time 
enough  to  consider  what  one  ought  to  be  at  fifty." 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  91 


CHAPTEE   IV. 

Most  Jaugeruus 
Is  that  temptation  that  does  goad  us  on 
To  sin  in  loving  virtue.  — JJeasure  for  Measure. 

"See  her  to-morrow, —  that  morrow  is  come!"  thought 
Maltravers,  as  he  rose  the  next  day  from  a  sleepless  couch. 
Ere  yet  he  had  obeyed  the  impatient  summons  of  Ferrers, 
who  had  thrice  sent  to  say  that  he  never  kept  people  wait- 
ing, his  servant  entered  with  a  packet  from  England  that 
had  just  arrived  by  one  of  those  rare  couriers  who  sometimes 
honour  that  Naples  which  might  be  so  lucrative  a  mart  to 
English  commerce  if  ISTeapolitan  kings  cared  for  trade,  or 
English  senators  for  "foreign  politics."  Letters  from  stew- 
ards and  bankers  were  soon  got  through,  and  Maltravers  re- 
served for  the  last  an  epistle  from  Cleveland.  There  was 
much  in  it  that  touched  him  home.  After  some  dry  details 
about  the  property  to  which  Maltravers  had  now  succeeded, 
and  some  trifling  comments  upon  trifling  remarks  in  Ernest's 
former  letters,  Cleveland  went  on  thus :  — 

I  confess,  my  dear  Ernest,  that  I  long  to  welcome  you  back  to  Eng- 
land. You  have  been  abroad  long  enough  to  see  other  countries ;  do  not 
stay  long  enough  to  prefer  them  to  your  own.  You  are  at  Xaples,  too, 
—  I  tremble  for  you.  I  know  well  that  delicious,  dreaming,  holiday-life 
of  Italy,  so  sweet  to  men  of  learning  and  imagination,  so  sweet,  too,  to 
youth,  so  sweet  to  pleasure  !  But,  Ernest,  do  you  not  feel  already  how 
it  enervates  ;  how  the  luxurious  far  nienle  unfits  us  for  grave  exertion? 
Men  may  become  too  refined  and  too  fastidious  for  useful  purposes;  and 
nowhere  can  they  become  so  more  rapidly  than  in  Italy.  My  dear 
Ernest,  I  know  you  well ;  you  are  not  made  to  sink  down  into  a  vir- 
tuoso, with  a  cabinet  full  of  cameos  and  a  head  full  of  pictures,  still  less 
are  you  made  to  be  an  indolent  cicesheo  to  some  fair  Italian,  with  one 
passion  and  two  ideas.  And  yet  I  have  known  men  as  clever  as  you 
whom  that  bewitching  Italy  has  sunk  into  one  or  other  of  these  insig- 


92  ERNEST  MALTR AVERS. 

nificant  beings.  Don't  run  away  with  the  notion  that  you  have  plenty 
of  time  before  you.  You  have  no  such  thing.  At  your  age,  and  with 
your  fortune  (I  wish  you  were  not  so  rich  !),  the  boHday  of  one  year 
becomes  the  custom  of  the  next.  In  England,  to  be  a  useful  or  a  dis- 
tinguished man,  you  must  labour.  Now,  labour  itself  is  sweet,  if  we 
take  to  it  early.  We  are  a  hard  race,  but  we  are  a  manly  one ;  and  our 
stage  is  the  most  exciting  in  Europe  for  an  able  and  an  honest  ambition. 
Perhaps  you  will  tell  me  you  are  not  ambitious  now.  Very  possibly  ; 
but  ambitious  you  will  be  ;  and,  believe  me,  there  is  no  unhappier  wretch 
than  a  man  who  is  ambitious  but  disappointed,  —  who  has  the  desire  for 
fame,  but  has  lost  the  power  to  achieve  it ;  who  longs  for  the  goal,  but 
will  not  and  cannot  put  away  his  slippei-s  to  walk  to  it.  What  I  most 
fear  for  you  is  one  of  these  two  evils,  —  an  early  marriage,  or  a  fatal 
liaison  with  some  married  woman.  The  first  evil  is  certainly  the  least ; 
but  for  you  it  would  still  be  a  great  one.  With  your  sensitive  romance, 
with  your  morbid  cravings  for  the  ideal,  domestic  happiness  would  sooa 
grow  trite  and  dull.  You  would  demand  new  excitement,  and  become  a 
restless  and  disgusted  man.  It  is  necessary  for  you  to  get  rid  of  all  the 
false  fever  of  life  before  you  settle  down  to  everlasting  ties.  You  do  not 
yet  know  your  own  mind  ;  you  would  choose  your  partner  from  some 
visionary  caprice  or  momentary  impulse,  and  not  from  the  deep  and  ac- 
curate knowledge  of  those  qualities  which  would  most  harmonize  with 
your  own  character.  People  to  live  happily  with  each  other  must  Jit 
in,  as  it  were,  —  the  proud  be  mated  with  the  meek,  the  irritable  with 
the  gentle,  and  so  forth.  No,  my  dear  Maltravers,  do  not  think  of  mar- 
riage yet  a  while  ;  and  if  there  is  any  danger  of  it,  come  over  to  me  im- 
mediately. But  if  I  warn  you  against  a  lawful  tie,  how  much  more 
against  an  illicit  one  I  You  are  precisely  at  the  age  and  of  the  dispo- 
sition which  render  the  temptation  so  strong  and  so  deadly.  With  you 
it  might  not  be  the  sin  of  an  hour,  but  the  bondage  of  a  life.  I  know 
your  chivalric  honour,  your  tender  heart ;  T  know  how  faithful  you 
would  be  to  one  who  had  sacrificed  for  you.  But  that  fidelity,  Maltra- 
vers, to  what  a  life  of  wasted  talent  and  energies  would  it  not  compel 
you  !  Putting  aside  for  the  moment  (for  that  needs  no  comment)  the 
question  of  the  grand  immorality,  what  so  fatal  to  a  bold  and  proud 
temper  as  to  be  at  war  with  society  at  the  first  entrance  into  life  !  What 
so  withering  to  manly  aims  and  purposes  as  the  giving  into  the  keeping 
of  a  woman  who  has  interest  in  your  love  and  interest  against  your 
career,  which  might  part  you  at  once  from  her  side,  the  control  of  your 
future  destinies  !  I  could  say  more  ;  but  I  trust  what  I  have  said  is 
superfluous,  —  if  so,  pray  assure  me  of  it.  Depend  upon  this,  Ernest 
Maltravers,  that  Lf  you  do  not  fulfil  what  nature  intended  for  your  fate, 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  93 

you  ■will  be  a  morbid  misanthrope  or  an  indolent  voluptuary,  —  wretched 
and  listless  in  manhood,  repining  and  joyless  in  old  age.  But  if  you  do 
fulfil  your  fate,  you  must  enter  soon  into  your  apprenticeship.  Let  me 
see  you  labour  and  aspire,  —  no  matter  what  in,  —  what  to.  Work, 
work ;  that  is  all  I  ask  of  you ! 

I  wish  you  could  see  your  old  country-house  ,  it  has  a  venerable  and 
picturesque  look,  and  during  your  minority  they  have  let  the  ivy  cover 
three  sides  of  it.     INIontaigne  might  have  lived  there. 

Adieu,  dearest  Ernest. 

Your  anxious  and  affectionate  guardian, 

Frederick  Cleveland. 

P.  S.  I  am  writing  a  book,  —  it  shall  last  me  ten  years  ;  it  occupies 
me,  but  does  not  faiigue.     Write  a  book  yourself. 

Maltravers  had  just  finished  this  letter  when  Ferrers  en- 
tered impatiently.  "Will  you  ride  out?"  said  he.  "I  have 
sent  the  breakfast  away.  I  saw  that  breakfast  was  a  vain 
hope  to-day, —  indeed,  mij  appetite  is  gone." 

"Pshaw!  "  said  Maltravers. 

"Pshaw!     Humph!  for  my  part  I  like  well-bred  people." 

"I  have  had  a  letter  from  Cleveland." 

"And  what  the  deuce  has  that  got  to  do  with  the  chocolate?  " 

"Oh,  Lumley,  you  are  insufferable!  You  think  of  nothing 
but  yourself;  and  self  with  you  means  nothing  that  is  not 
animal." 

"Why,  yes,  I  believe  I  have  some  sense,"  replied  Ferrers, 
complacently.  "I  know  the  philosophy  of  life.  All  un- 
fledged bipeds  are  animals,  I  suppose.  If  Providence  had 
made  me  graminivorous,  I  should  have  eaten  grass;  if  rum- 
inating, I  should  have  chewed  the  cud;  but  as  it  has  made 
me  a  carniverous,  culinary,  and  eachinnatory  animal,  I  eat  a 
cutlet,  scold  about  the  sauce,  and  laugh  at  you,  —  and  this  is 
what  yoii  call  being  selfish !  " 

It  was  late  at  noon  when  INIaltravers  found  himself  at  the 
palazzo  of  Madame  de  Ventadour.  He  was  surprised,  but 
agreeably  so,  that  he  was  admitted,  for  the  first  time,  into 
that  private  sanctum  which  bears  the  hackneyed  title  of  bou- 
doir.    But  there  was  little  enough  of  the  fine  lady's  boudoir 


94  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

in  the  simple  morning-room  of  Madame  de  Ventadour.  It 
■was  a  lofty  apartment,  stored  with  books,  and  furnished,  not 
without  claim  to  grace,  but  with  very  small  attention  to 
luxury. 

Valerie  was  not  there,  and  Maltravers,  left  alone,  after  a 
hasty  glance  around  the  chamber  leaned  abstractedly  against 
the  wall,  and  forgot,  alas!  all  the  admonitions  of  Cleveland. 
In  a  few  moments  the  door  opened,  and  Valerie  entered. 
She  was  unusually  pale,  and  Maltravers  thought  her  eyelids 
betrayed  the  traces  of  tears.  He  was  touched,  and  his  heart 
smote  him. 

"I  have  kept  you  waiting,  I  fear,"  said  Valerie,  motioning 
him  to  a  seat  at  a  little  distance  from  that  on  which  she 
placed  herself;  "but  you  will  forgive  me,"  she  added,  with  a 
slight  smile.  Then,  observing  he  was  about  to  speak,  she 
went  on  rapidly:  "Hear  me,  Mr.  Maltravers  —  before  you 
speak,  hear  me!  You  uttered  words  last  night  that  ought 
never  to  have  been  addressed  to  me.  You  professed  to  — 
love  me." 

"Professed!" 

"Answer  me,"  said  Valerie,  with  abrupt  energy, —  "not  as 
man  to  woman,  but  as  one  human  creature  to  another.  From 
the  bottom  of  your  heart,  from  the  core  of  your  conscience,  I 
call  on  you  to  speak  the  honest  and  the  simple  truth.  Do  you 
love  me  as  your  heart,  your  genius,  must  be  capable  of 
loving?  " 

"I  love  you  truly,  passionately!"  said  Maltravers,  sur- 
prised and  confused,  but  still  with  enthusiasm  in  his  musical 
voice  and  earnest  eyes.  Valerie  gazed  upon  him  as  if  she 
sought  to  penetrate  into  his  soul.  Maltravers  went  on. 
"Yes,  Valerie,  when  we  first  met,  you  aroused  a  long  dor- 
mant and  delicious  sentiment.  But  since  then,  what  deep 
emotions  has  that  sentiment  called  forth?  Your  graceful  in- 
tellect, your  lovely  thoughts,  wise,  yet  womanly,  have  com- 
pleted the  conquest  your  face  and  voice  began.  Valerie,  I 
love  you.  And  you  —  you,  Valerie  —  ah  !  I  do  not  deceive 
myself  —  you  also  —  " 

"Love!"   interrupted  Valerie,    deeply   blushing,    but  in  a 


.    ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  95 

calm  voice.  "Ernest  IMaltravers,  I  do  not  deny  it;  honestly 
and  frankly  I  confess  the  fault.  I  have  examined  my  heart 
during  the  whole  of  the  last  sleepless  night,  and  I  confess 
that  I  love  you.  Now,  then,  understand  me, —  we  meet  no 
more." 

"What!"  said  Maltravers,  falling  involuntarily  at  her  feet, 
and  seeking  to  detain  her  hand,  which  he  seized.  "What! 
now,  when  you  have  given  life  a  new  charm,  will  you  as  sud- 
denly blast  it?     No,  Valerie,  no;  I  will  not  listen  to  you." 

Madame  de  Ventadour  rose  and  said,  with  a  cold  dignity : 
"  Hear  me  calmly,  or  I  quit  the  room,  and  all  I  would  now 
say  rests  forever  unspoken." 

Maltravers  rose  also,  folded  his  arms  haughtily,  bit  his  lip, 
and  stood  erect,  and  confronting  Valerie  rather  in  the  attitude 
of  an  accuser  than  a  suppliant. 

"Madame,"  said  he,  gravely,  "I  will  offend  no  more;  I  will 
trust  to  your  manner,  since  I  may  not  believe  your  words." 

"You  are  cruel,"  said  Valerie,  smiling  mournfully;  "but 
so  are  all  men.  Now  let  me  make  myself  understood.  I  was 
betrothed  to  M.  de  Ventadour  in  my  childhood.  I  did  not  see 
him  till  a  month  before  we  married.  I  had  no  choice;  French 
girls  have  none.  We  were  wed.  I  had  formed  no  other 
attachment.  I  was  proud  and  vain;  wealth,  ambition,  and 
social  rank  for  a  time  satisfied  my  faculties  and  ray  heart. 
At  length  I  grew  restless  and  unhappy.  I  felt  that  something 
of  life  was  wanting.  M.  de  Ventadour's  sister  was  the  first 
to  recommend  me  to  the  common  resource  of  our  sex,  at  least, 
in  France, —  a  lover.  I  was  shocked  and  startled,  for  I  belong 
to  a  family  in  which  women  are  chaste  and  men  brave.  I 
began,  however,  to  look  around  me  and  examine  the  truth  of 
the  philosophy  of  vice.  I  found  that  no  woman  who  loved 
honestly  and  deepl}''  an  illicit  lover  was  happy.  I  found, 
too,  the  hideous  profundity  of  Rochefoucauld's  maxim  that  a 
woman  —  I  speak  of  French  women  —  may  live  without  a 
lover;  but,  a  lover  once  admitted,  she  never  goes  through  life 
with  only  one.  She  is  deserted;  she  cannot  bear  the  anguish 
and  the  solitude;  she  fills  up  the  void  with  a  second  idol. 
For  her  there  is  no  longer  a  fall  from  virtue, —  it  is  a  gliding 


96  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

and  involuntary  descent  from  sin  to  sin,  till  old  age  comes  on 
and  leaves  her  without  love  and  without  respect.  I  reasoned 
calmly,  for  my  passions  did  not  blind  my  reason.  I  could 
not  love  the  egotists  around  me.  I  resolved  upon  my  career; 
and  now,  in  temptation,  I  will  adhere  to  it.  Virtue  is  my 
lover,  my  pride,  my  comfort,  my  life  of  life.  Do  you  love 
me,  and  will  you  rob  me  of  this  treasure?  I  saw  you,  and 
for  the  first  time  I  felt  a  vague  and  intoxicating  interest  in 
another ;  but  I  did  not  dream  of  danger.  As  our  acquaintance 
advanced,  I  formed  to  myself  a  romantic  and  delightful  vi- 
sion. I  would  be  your  firmest,  your  truest  friend;  your  con- 
fidant, your  adviser, —  perhaps,  in  some  epochs  of  life,  your 
inspiration  and  your  guide.  I  repeat  that  I  foresaw  no  dan- 
ger in  your  society.  I  felt  myself  a  nobler  and  a  better  being. 
I  felt  more  benevolent,  more  tolerant,  more  exalted.  I  saw 
life  through  the  medium  of  purifying  admiration  for  a  gifted 
nature  and  a  profound  and  generous  soul.  I  fancied  we  might 
be  ever  thus,  each  to  each,  —  one  strengthened,  assured,  sup- 
ported, by  the  other.  Nay,  I  even  contemplated  with  pleas- 
ure the  prospect  of  your  future  marriage  with  another, —  of 
loving  your  wife;  of  contributing,  with  her,  to  your  happi- 
ness: my  imagination  made  me  forget  that  we  are  made  of 
clay.  Suddenly  all  these  visions  were  dispelled,  the  fairy 
palace  was  overthrown,  and  I  found  myself  awake  and  on  the 
brink  of  the  abyss.  You  loved  me,  and  in  the  moment  of 
that  fatal  confession  the  mask  dropped  from  my  soul,  and  I 
felt  that  you  had  become  too  dear  to  me.  Be  silent  still,  I 
implore  you.  I  do  not  tell  you  of  the  emotions,  of  the  strug- 
gles, through  which  I  have  passed  the  last  few  hours, —  the 
crisis  of  a  life.  I  tell  you  only  of  the  resolution  1  formed. 
I  thought  it  due  to  you,  nor  unworthy  to  myself,  to  speak 
the  truth.  Perhaps  it  might  be  more  womanly  to  conceal  it; 
but  my  heart  has  something  masculine  in  its  nature.  I  have 
a  great  faith  in  your  nobleness.  1  believe  you  can  sympathize 
with  whatever  is  best  in  human  weakness.  I  tell  you  that  I 
love  you;  I  throw  myself  upon  your  generosity.  I  beseech 
you  to  assist  my  own  sense  of  right,  to  think  well  of  me,  to 
honour  me,  and  to  leave  me!  " 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  97 

During  the  last  part  of  this  strange  and  frank  avowal, 
Valerie's  voice  had  grown  inexpressibly  touching;  her  ten- 
derness forced  itself  into  her  manner;  and  when  she  ceased, 
her  lip  quivered;  her  tears,  repressed  by  a  violent  effort, 
trembled  in  her  eyes,  her  hands  were  clasped,  her  attitude 
was  that  of  humility,  not  pride. 

Maltravers  stood  perfectly  spell- bound.  At  length  he  ad- 
vanced, dropped  on  one  knee,  kissed  her  hand  with  an  aspect 
and  air  of  reverential  homage,  and  turned  to  quit  the  room 
in  silence;  for  he  would  not  dare  to  trust  himself  to  speak. 

Valerie  gazed  at  him  in  anxious  alarm.  "Oh,  no,  no!  "  she 
exclaimed,  "do  not  leave  me  yet;  this  is  our  last  meeting, 
—  our  last.  Tell  me  at  least  that  you  understand  me,  that 
you  see,  if  I  am  no  weak  fool,  I  am  also  no  heartless  coquette; 
tell  me  that  you  see  I  am  not  as  hard  as  I  have  seemed;  that 
I  have  not  knowingly  trifled  with  your  happiness;  that  even 
now  1  am  not  selfish.  Your  love  —  I  ask  it  no  more;  but 
your  esteem,  your  good  opinion.  Oh,  speak,  speak,  I  implore 
you!" 

"  Valerie,"  said  Maltravers,  "if  I  was  silent,  it  was  because 
my  heart  was  too  full  for  words.  You  have  raised  all  woman- 
hood in  my  eyes.  I  did  love  you, —  I  now  venerate  and  adore. 
Your  noble  frankness,  so  unlike  the  irresolute  frailty,  the 
miserable  wiles  of  your  sex,  has  touched  a  chord  in  my  heart 
that  has  been  mute  for  years.  I  leave  you  to  think  better  of 
human  nature.  Oh!"  he  continued,  "hasten  to  forget  all  of 
me  that  can  cost  you  a  pang.  Let  me  still,  in  absence  and  in 
sadness,  think  that  I  retain  in  your  friendship  — let  it  be 
friendship  only  — the  inspiration,  the  guide  of  which  you 
spoke;  and  if,  hereafter,  men  shall  name  me  with  praise  and 
honour,  feel,  Valerie,  feel  that  I  have  comforted  myself  for 
the  loss  of  your  love  by  becoming  worthy  of  your  confidence, 
your  esteem.  Oh  that  we  had  met  earlier,  when  no  barrier 
was  between  us !  " 

"Go,  go,  now,"  faltered  Valerie,  almost  choked  with  her 
emotions ;  "  may  Heaven  bless  you !     Go !  " 

Maltravers  muttered  a  few  inaudible  and  incoherent  words, 
and  quitted  the  apartment. 

7 


98  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 


CHAPTER   V. 

The  men  of  sense,  those  idols  of  the  shallo^v,  are  very  inferior  to  the  men 
of  Passions.  It  is  the  strong  passions  which,  rescuing  us  from  sloth,  can  alone 
impart  to  us  that  continuous  and  earnest  attention  necessary  to  great  intel- 
lectual efforts.  —  Helvetids. 

When  Ferrers  returned  that  day  from  his  customary  ride, 
he  was  surprised  to  see  the  lobbies  and  hall  of  the  apartment 
which  he  occupied  in  common  with  Maltravers,  littered  with 
bags  and  malles,  boxes  and  books,  and  Ernest's  Swiss  valet 
directing  porters  and  waiters  in  a  mosaic  of  French,  English, 
and  Italian. 

"Well!"  said  Lumley,  "and  what  is  all  this?" 

"  II  signore  va  partir,  sare,  ah,  mon  Dieu !  —  tout  of  a 
sudden." 

"0  —  h!  and  where  is  he  now?" 

"In  his  room,  sare." 

Over  the  chaos  strode  Ferrers,  and  opening  the  door  of  his 
friend's  dressing-room  without  ceremony,  he  saw  Maltravers 
buried  in  a  fauteuil,  with  his  hands  drooping  on  his  knees, 
his  head  bent  over  his  breast,  and  his  whole  attitude  expres- 
sive of  dejection  and  exhaustion. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  my  dear  Ernest?  You  have  not 
killed  a  man  in  a  duel?" 

'*No." 

"What  then?    Why  are  you  going  away,  and  whither?" 

"No  matter;  leave  me  in  peace." 

"Friendly!"  said  Ferrers;  "very  friendly!  And  what  is 
to  become  of  me, —  what  companion  am  1  to  have  in  this 
cursed  resort  of  antiquarians  and  lazzaroni?  You  have  no 
feeling,  Mr.  Maltravers!" 

"Will  you  come  with  me,  then?"  said  Maltravers,  in  vain 
endeavouring  to  rouse  himself. 

"But  where  are  you  going?" 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  99 

"Anywhere, —  to  Paris,  to  London." 

"No J  1  have  arranged  my  plans  for  the  summer.  I  am  not 
so  rich  as  some  people.     I  hate  change j  it  is  so  expensive." 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow  —  " 

"Is  this  fair  dealing  with  me?"  continued  Lumley,  who, 
for  once  in  his  life,  was  really  angry.  "If  1  were  an  old  coat 
you  had  worn  for  five  years  you  could  not  throw  me  off  with 
more  nonchalance.'^ 

"Ferrers,  forgive  me.  My  honour  is  concerned.  I  must 
leave  this  place.  I  trust  you  will  remain  my  guest  here, 
though  in  the  absence  of  your  host.  You  know  that  I  have 
engaged  the  apartments  for  the  next  three  months." 

"Humph!  "  said  Ferrers,  "as  that  is  the  case  I  may  as  well 
stay  here.  But  why  so  secret?  Have  you  seduced  Madame 
de  Ventadour,  or  has  her  wise  husband  his  suspicions?  Bein, 
hein  !  " 

Maltravers  smothered  his  disgust  at  this  coarseness;  and 
perhaps  there  is  no  greater  trial  of  temper  than  in  a  he 
friend's  gross  remarks  upon  the  connections  of  the  heart. 

"Ferrers,"  said  he,  "if  you  care  for  me,  breathe  not  a  word 
disrespectful  to  Madame  de  Ventadour;  she  is  an  angel! " 

"But  why  leave  Naples?" 

"Trouble  me  no  more." 

"Good  day,  sir,"  said  Ferrers,  highly  offended,  and  he 
stalked  out  of  the  chamber;  nor  did  Ernest  see  him  again 
before  his  departure. 

It  was  late  that  evening  when  Maltravers  found  himself 
alone  in  his  carriage,  pursuing  by  starlight  the  ancient  and 
melancholy  road  to  Mola  di  Gaeta. 

His  solitude  was  a  luxury  to  Maltravers;  he  felt  an  inex- 
pressible sense  of  relief  to  be  freed  from  Ferrers.  The  hard 
sense,  the  un pliant,  though  humorous,  imperiousness,  the 
animal  sensuality  of  his  companion  would  have  been  a  tor- 
ture to  him  in  his  present  state  of  mind. 

The  next  morning,  when  he  rose,  the  orange-blossoms  of 
Mola  di  Gaeta  were  sweet  beneath  the  window  of  the  inn 
where  he  rested.  It  was  now  the  early  spring,  and  the 
freshness  of  the  odour,  the  breathing  health  of  earth  and  air, 


100  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

it  is  impossible  to  describe.  Italy  itself  boasts  few  spots 
more  lovely  than  that  same  Mola  di  Gaeta,  nor  does  that  hal- 
cyon sea  wear,  even  at  Naples  or  Sorrento,  a  more  bland  and 
enchanting  smile. 

So,  after  a  hasty  and  scarcely  tasted  breakfast,  Maltravers 
strolled  through  the  orange  groves  and  gained  the  beach; 
and  there,  stretched  at  idle  length  by  the  murmuring  waves, 
he  resigned  himself  to  thought,  and  endeavoured,  for  the  first 
time  since  his  parting  with  Valerie,  to  collect  and  examine 
the  state  of  his  mind  and  feelings.  Maltravers,  to  his  own 
surprise,  did  not  find  himself  so  unhappy  as  he  had  expected. 
On  the  contrary,  a  soft  and  almost  delicious  sentiment,  which 
he  could  not  well  define,  floated  over  all  his  memories  of  the 
beautiful  Frenchwoman.  Perhaps  the  secret  was  that  while 
his  pride  was  not  mortified,  his  conscience  was  not  galled; 
perhaps,  also,  he  had  not  loved  Valerie  so  deeply  as  he  had 
imagined.  The  confession  and  the  separation  had  happily 
come  before  her  presence  had  grown  the  want  of  a  life.  As 
it  was,  he  felt  as  if,  by  some  holy  and  mystic  sacrifice,  he  had 
been  made  reconciled  to  himself  and  mankind.  He  woke  to 
a  juster  and  higher  appreciation  of  human  nature,  and  of 
woman's  nature  in  especial.  He  had  found  honesty  and 
truth  where  he  might  least  have  expected  it, —  in  a  woman 
of  a  court,  in  a  woman  surrounded  by  vicious  and  frivolous 
circles;  in  a  woman  who  had  nothing  in  the  opinion  of  her 
friends,  her  country,  her  own  husband,  the  social  system  in 
which  she  moved,  to  keep  her  from  the  concessions  of  frailty; 
in  a  woman  of  the  world,  a  woman  of  Paris !  Yes,  it  was  his 
very  disappointment  that  drove  away  the  fogs  and  vapours 
that,  arising  from  the  marshes  of  the  great  world,  had  gradu- 
ally settled  round  his  soul.  Valerie  de  Ventadour  had  taught 
him  not  to  despise  her  sex,  not  to  judge  by  appearances,  not 
to  sicken  of  a  low  and  a  hypocritical  world.  He  looked  in  his 
heart  for  the  love  of  Valerie,  and  he  found  there  the  love  of 
virtue.  Thus,  as  he  turned  his  eyes  inward,  did  he  gradually 
awaken  to  a  sense  of  the  true  impressions  engraved  there. 
And  he  felt  the  bitterest  drop  of  the  deep  fountains  was  not 
sorrow  for  himself,  but  for  her.     What  pangs  must  that  high 


EnXEST  MALTRAVERS.  101 

spirit  have  endured  ere  it  could  have  submitted  to  the  avowal 
it  had  made !  Yet,  even  in  this  attiiction,  he  found  at  last  a 
solace.  A  mind  so  strong  could  support  and  heal  the  weakness 
of  the  heart.  He  felt  that  Valerie  de  Ventadour  was  not  a 
woman  to  pine  away  in  the  unresisted  indulgence  of  morbid 
and  unholy  emotions.  He  could  not  flatter  himself  that  she 
would  not  seek  to  eradicate  a  love  she  repented;  and  he  sighed 
with  a  natural  selfishness  when  he  owned  also  that  sooner  or 
later  she  would  succeed.  "But  be  it  so,"  said  he,  half  aloud, 
—  "I  will  prepare  my  heart  to  rejoice  when  I  learn  that  she 
remembers  me  only  as  a  friend.  Next  to  the  bliss  of  her 
love  is  the  pride  of  her  esteem." 

Such  was  the  sentiment  with  which  his  reveries  closed; 
and  with  every  league  that  bore  him  farther  from  the  South, 
the  sentiment  grew  strengthened  and  confirmed. 

Ernest  Maltravers  felt  that  there  is  in  the  affections  them- 
selves so  much  to  purify  and  exalt  that  even  an  erring  love, 
conceived  without  a  cold  design,  and  (when  its  nature  is 
fairly  understood)  wrestled  against  with  a  noble  spirit,  leaves 
the  heart  more  tolerant  and  tender,  and  the  mind  more  set- 
tled and  enlarged.  The  philosophy  limited  to  the  reason  puts 
into  motion  the  automata  of  the  closet ;  but  to  those  who  have 
the  world  for  a  stage,  and  who  find  their  hearts  are  the  great 
actors,  experience  and  wisdom  must  be  wrought  from  the 
Philosophy  of  the  Passions. 


BOOK    III. 


'fi  'TroAXaiy  ov  navrl  (paeiverai,  .  .  . 
Os  I.UV  tSj),  ixiyas  ovtos. 

Callimachus  :  Ex  Hymno  in  ApoUinar. 

"  Not  to  all  men  Apollo  shows  himself ; 
Who  sees  him,  —  he  is  great !  " 


CHAPTER   I. 

Here  will  we  sit  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
Creep  in  our  ears  :  soft  stillness  and  the  night 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 

Shakspeaee. 


BOAT  SONG  ON  THE  LAKE  OF  COMO. 


The  Beautiful  Clime  !  the  Clime  of  Love  ! 

Thou  beautiful  Italy ! 
Like  a  mother's  eyes,  the  earnest  skies 

Ever  have  smiles  for  thee  ! 
Not  a  flower  that  blows,  not  a  beam  that  glows, 

But  what  is  in  love  with  thee ! 


The  beautiful  lake,  the  Larian  lake !  ^ 

Soft  lake  like  a  silver  sea ; 
The  Huntress  Queen,  with  her  nymphs  of  sheen. 

Never  had  bath  like  thee. 
See,  the  Lady  of  night  and  her  maids  of  light 

Even  now  are  mid-deep  in  thee  ! 


1  The  ancient  name  for  Como. 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  103 


Beautiful  child  of  the  lonely  hills, 

Ever  blest  may  thy  slumbers  be  ! 
No  mouruer  should  tread  by  thy  dreamy  bed, 

No  life  bring  a  care  to  thee,  — 
Nay,  soft  to  thy  bed  let  the  mourner  tread. 

And  life  be  a  dream  like  thee ! 

Such,  though  uttered  in  the  soft  Italian  tongue,  and  now 
imperfectly  translated, —  such  were  the  notes  that  floated  one 
lovely  evening  in  summer  along  the  lake  of  Como.  The  boat, 
from  which  came  the  song,  drifted  gently  down  the  sparkling 
waters  towards  the  mossy  banks  of  a  lawn  whence  on  a  little 
eminence  gleamed  the  white  walls  of  a  villa  backed  by  vine- 
yards. On  that  lawn  stood  a  young  and  handsome  woman 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  her  husband  and  listening  to  the 
song.  But  her  delight  was  soon  deepened  into  one  of  more 
personal  interest  as  the  boatmen,  nearing  the  banks,  changed 
their  measure,  and  she  felt  that  the  minstrelsy  was  in  honour 
of  herself. 

SERENADE  TO  THE  SONGSTRESS. 


Choecs. 

Softly,  oh !  soft,  let  us  rest  on  the  oar, 

And  vex  not  a  billow  that  sighs  to  the  shore ; 

For  sacred  the  spot  where  the  starry  waves  meet 

With  the  beach,  where  the  breath  of  the  citron  is  sweet. 

There  's  a  spell  on  the  waves  that  now  waft  us  along 

To  the  last  of  our  Muses,  —  the  Spirit  of  Song. 

Recitative. 

The  Eagle  of  old  renown, 

And  the  Lombard's  iron  crown 
And  Milan's  mighty  name  are  ours  no  more ; 

But  by  this  glassy  water, 

Ilarmonia's  youngest  daughter 
Still  from  the  lightning  saves  one  laurel  to  our  shore. 


104  ER^'EST  MALTRAYERS. 


Chorus. 

They  heard  thee,  Teresa,  the  Teuton,  the  Gaul, 

Who  have  raised  the  rude  thrones  of  the  North  on  our  fall,  — 

They  heard  thee,  and  bowed  to  the  might  of  thy  song. 

Lili.e  love  went  thy  steps  o'er  the  hearts  of  the  strongs 

As  the  moou  to  the  air,  as  the  soul  to  the  clay. 

To  the  void  of  this  earth  was  the  breath  of  thy  lay. 

Eecitative. 

Honour  for  aye  to  her. 

The  bright  interpreter 
Of  Art's  great  mysteries  to  the  enchanted  throng  ! 

While  tyrants  heard  thy  strains, 

Sad  Rome  forgot  her  chains ; 
The  world  the  sword  had  lost  was  conquered  back  by  song ! 

"  Thou  repentest,  my  Teresa,  that  thou  hast  renounced  thy 
dazzling  career  for  a  dull  home  and  a  husband  old  enough  to 
be  thy  father,"  said  the  husband  to  the  wife,  with  a  smile 
that  spoke  confidence  in  the  answer. 

"Ah,  no!  even  its  homage  would  have  no  music  to  me  if 
thou  didst  not  hear  it." 

She  was  a  celebrated  personage  in  Italy,  —  the  Signora 
Cesarini,  now  Madame  de  Montaigne.  Her  earlier  3'outh  had 
been  spent  upon  the  stage,  and  her  promise  of  vocal  excellence 
had  been  most  brilliant.  But  after  a  brief  though  splendid 
career  she  married  a  French  gentleman  of  good  birth  and 
fortune,  retired  from  the  stage,  and  spent  her  life  alternately 
in  the  gay  saloons  of  Paris  and  upon  the  banks  of  the  dreamy 
Como,  on  which  her  husband  had  purchased  a  small  but  beau- 
tiful villa.  She  still,  however,  exercised  in  private  her  fas- 
cinating art;  to  which  —  for  she  was  a  woman  of  singular 
accomplishment  and  talent  —  she  added  the  gift  of  the 
improvvisatrice.  She  had  just  returned  for  the  summer  to 
this  lovely  retreat,  and  a  party  of  enthusiastic  youths  from 
Milan  had  sought  the  lake  of  Como  to  welcome  her  arrival 
with  the  suitable  homage  of  song  and  music.  It  is  a  charm- 
ing relic,  that  custom  of  the  brighter  days  of  Italy;  and  I 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  105 

myself  have  listened,  on  the  still  waters  of  the  same  lake,  to 
a  similar  greeting  to  a  greater  genius, —  the  queeu-like  and 
unrivalled  Pasta,  the  Semiramis  of  Song!  And  while  my 
boat  paused,  and  I  caught  something  of  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
serenaders,  the  boatman  touched  me,  and  pointing  to  a  part 
of  the  lake  on  which  the  setting  sun  shed  its  rosiest  smile, 
he  said,  "There,  Signor,  was  drowned  one  of  your  country- 
men,—  'bellissimo  uomo!  che  fu  bello! '"  Yes,  there,  in  the 
pride  of  his  promising  youth,  of  his  noble  and  almost  godlike 
beauty,  before  the  very  windows,  the  very  eyes,  of  his  bride, 
the  waves,  without  a  frown,  had  swept  over  the  idol  of  many 
hearts,  —  the  graceful  and  gallant  Locke,'  And  above  his 
grave  was  the  voluptuous  sky,  and  over  it  floated  the  trium- 
phant music.  It  was  as  the  moral  of  the  Eoman  poets, — 
calling  the  living  to  a  holiday  over  the  oblivion  of  the  dead. 

As  the  boat  now  touched  the  bank,  Madame  de  Montaigne 
accosted  the  musicians,  thanked  them  with  a  sweet  and  un- 
affected earnestness  for  the  compliment  so  delicately  offered, 
and  invited  them  ashore.  The  Milanese,  who  were  six  in 
number,  accepted  the  invitation,  and  moored  their  boat  to  the 
jutting  shore.  It  was  then  that  M.  de  Montaigne  pointed 
out  to  the  notice  of  his  wife  a  boat,  that  had  lingered  under 
the  shadow  of  a  bank,  tenanted  by  a  young  man,  who  had 
seemed  to  listen  with  rapt  attention  to  the  music,  and  who 
had  once  joined  in  the  chorus  (as  it  was  twice  repeated)  with 
a  voice  so  exquisitely  attuned  and  so  rich  in  its  deep  power 
that  it  had  awakened  the  admiration  even  of  the  serenaders 
themselves. 

"Does  not  that  gentleman  belong  to  your  party?"  De  Mon- 
taigne asked  of  the  Milanese. 


^  Captain  William  Locke,  of  the  Life  Guards  (the  onl}'  son  of  the  accom- 
plished Mr  Locke,  of  Norbury  Park),  distiuguished  by  a  character  the  most 
amiable,  and  by  a  personal  beauty  tliat  certainly  equalled,  perhaps  surpassed, 
the  highest  masterpiece  of  Grecian  sculpture.  He  was  returning  in  a  boat 
from  the  town  of  Como  to  his  villa,  on  the  banks  of  the  lake,  when  the  boat 
was  upset  by  one  of  the  mysterious  under-currcnts  to  which  the  lake  is  danger- 
ously subjected,  and  he  was  drowned  in  sight  of  his  bride,  who  was  watching 
his  return  from  the  terrace,  or  balcony,  of  their  home. 


106  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

"No,  Signer,  we  know  him  not,"  was  the  answer;  "his 
boat  came  unawares  upon  us  as  we  were  singing." 

While  this  question  and  answer  were  going  on,  the  young 
man  had  quitted  his  station,  and  his  oars  cut  the  glassy  sur- 
face of  the  lake  just  before  the  place  where  De  Montaigne 
stood.  With  the  courtesy  of  his  country,  the  Frenchman 
lifted  his  hat,  and  by  his  gesture  arrested  the  eye  and  oar  of 
the  solitary  rower.  "Will  you  honour  us,"  he  said,  "by 
joining  our  little  party?" 

"It  is  a  pleasure  I  covet  too  much  to  refuse,"  replied  the 
boatman,  witn  a  slight  foreign  accent;  and  in  another  moment 
he  was  on  shore.  He  was  one  of  remarkable  appearance. 
His  long  hair  floated  with  a  careless  grace  over  a  brow  more 
calm  and  thoughtful  than  became  his  years;  his  manner  was 
unusually  quiet  and  self-collected,  and  not  without  a  certain 
stateliness,  rendered  more  striking  by  the  height  of  his  stat- 
ure, a  lordly  contour  of  feature,  and  a  serene  but  settled  ex- 
pression of  melancholy  in  his  eyes  and  smile.  "You  will 
easily  believe,"  said  he,  "that,  cold  as  my  countrymen  are 
esteemed  (for  you  must  have  discovered  already  that  I  am  an 
Englishman),  I  could  not  but  share  in  the  enthusiasm  of  those 
about  me  when  loitering  near  the  very  ground  sacred  to  the 
inspiration.  For  the  rest,  I  am  residing  for  the  present  in 
yonder  villa,  opposite  to  your  own;  my  name  is  Maltravers; 
and  I  am  enchanted  to  think  that  I  am  no  longer  a  personal 
stranger  to  one  whose  fame  has  already  reached  me."  Ma- 
dame de  Montaigne  was  flattered  by  something  in  the  manner 
and  tone  of  the  Englishman,  which  said  a  great  deal  more 
than  his  words;  and  in  a  few  minutes,  beneath  the  influence 
of  the  happy  Continental  ease,  the  whole  party  seemed  as  if 
they  had  known  each  other  for  years.  Wines  and  fruits  and 
other  simple  and  unpretending  refreshments  were  brought  out 
and  arranged  on  a  rude  table  upon  the  grass,  round  wliich  the 
guests  seated  themselves  with  their  host  and  hostess,  and  the 
clear  moon  shone  over  them,  and  the  lake  slept  below  in  sil- 
ver.    It  was  a  scene  for  a  Boccaccio  or  a  Claude. 

The  conversation  naturally  fell  upon  music;    it  is  almost 
the  only  thing  which  Italians  in  general  can  be  said  to  know, 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  107 

—  and  even  that  knowledge  comes  to  them,  like  Dogberry's 
reading  and  writing,  by  nature, —  for  of  music  as  an  art  the 
unprofessional  amateurs  know  but  little.  As  vain  and  arro- 
gant of  the  last  wreck  of  their  national  genius  as  the  Romans 
of  old  were  of  the  empire  of  all  arts  and  arms,  they  look  upon 
the  harmonies  of  other  lands  as  barbarous}  nor  can  they  ap- 
preciate or  understand  appreciation  of  the  mighty  German 
music,  which  is  the  proper  minstrelsy  of  a  nation  of  vie^i, —  a 
music  of  philosophy,  of  heroism,  of  the  intellect  and  the  im- 
agination, beside  which  the  strains  of  modern  Italy  are  indeed 
effeminate,  fantastic,  and  artificially  feeble.  Rossini  is  the 
Canova  of  music,  with  much  of  the  pretty,  with  nothing  of 
the  grand. 

The  little  party  talked,  however,  of  music  with  an  anima- 
tion and  gusto  that  charmed  the  melancholy  Maltravers, 
who  for  weeks  had  known  no  companion  save  his  own  thoughts, 
and  with  whom,  at  all  times,  enthusiasm  for  any  art  found 
a  ready  sympathy.  He  listened  attentively,  but  said  little; 
and  from  time  to  time,  whenever  the  conversation  flagged, 
amused  himself  by  examining  his  companions.  The  six 
Milanese  had  nothing  remarkable  in  their  countenances  or  in 
their  talk;  they  possessed  the  characteristic  energy  and  vol- 
ubility of  their  countrymen,  with  something  of  the  masculine 
dignity  which  distinguishes  the  Lombard  from  the  Southern, 
and  a  little  of  the  French  polish  which  the  inhabitants  of 
Milan  seldom  fail  to  contract.  Their  rank  was  evidently  that 
of  the  middle  class;  for  Milan  has  a  middle  class,  and  one 
which  promises  great  results  hereafter.  But  they  were  no- 
ways distinguished  from  a  thousand  other  Milanese  whom 
Maltravers  had  met  with  in  the  walks  and  cafes  of  their  noble 
city.  The  host  was  somewhat  more  interesting.  He  was  a 
tall,  handsome  man,  of  about  eight  and  forty,  with  a  high 
forehead,  and  features  strongly  impressed  with  the  sober 
character  of  thought.  He  had  but  little  of  the  French  viva- 
city in  his  manner;  and  without  looking  at  his  countenance, 
you  would  still  have  felt  insensibly  that  he  was  the  eldest  of 
the  party.  His  wife  was  at  least  twenty  years  younger  than 
himself,  mirthful  and  playful  as  a  child,  but  with  a  certain 


108  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

feminine  and  fascinating  softness  in  her  unrestrained  gestures 
and  sparkling  gayety,  which  seemed  to  subdue  her  natural 
joyousness  into  the  form  and  method  of  conventional  ele- 
gance. Dark  hair  carelessly  arranged,  an  open  forehead, 
large,  black,  laughing  ej^es,  a  small,  straight  nose,  a  com- 
plexion just  relieved  from  the  olive  by  an  evanescent,  yet 
perpetually  recurring  blush,  a  round,  dimpled  cheek,  an  ex- 
quisitely-shaped mouth,  with  small  pearly  teeth,  and  a  light 
and  delicate  figure  a  little  below  the  ordinary  standard,  com- 
pleted the  picture  of  Madame  de  Montaigne. 

"Well,"  said  Signor  Tirabaloschi,  the  most  loquacious  and 
sentimental  of  the  guests,  filling  his  glass,  "these  are  hours 
to  think  of  for  the  rest  of  life.  But  we  cannot  hope  the 
Signora  will  long  remember  what  we  never  can  forget. 
'Paris,'  says  the  French  proverb,  'est  le  paradis  des  femmes;' 
and  in  Paradise,  I  take  it  for  granted,  we  recollect  very  little 
of  what  happened  on  earth." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Madame  de  Montaigne,  with  a  pretty,  musical 
laugh,  "  in  Paris  it  is  the  rage  to  despise  the  frivolous  life  of 
cities,  and  to  affect  des  sentivients  romanesques.  This  is 
precisely  the  scene  which  our  fine  ladies  and  fine  writers  would 
die  to  talk  of  and  to  describe.  Is  it  not  so,  Tnon  ami?"  and 
she  turned  affectionately  to  De  Montaigne. 

"True,"  replied  he;  "but  you  are  not  worthy  of  such  a 
scene, —  you  laugh  at  sentiment  and  romance." 

"  Only  at  French  sentiment  and  the  romance  of  the  Chaussee 
d'Antin.  You  English,"  she  continued,  shaking  her  head  at 
Maltravers,  "have  spoiled  and  corrupted  us;  we  are  not  con- 
tent to  imitate  you,  we  must  excel  you, —  we  out-horror 
horror,  and  rush  from  the  extravagant  into  the  frantic !  " 

"  The  ferment  of  the  new  school  is  perhaps  better  than  the 
stagnation  of  the  old,"  said  Maltravers.  "Yet  even  you," 
addressing  himself  to  the  Italians,  "  who  first  in  Petrarch,  in 
Tasso,  and  in  Ariosto  set  to  Europe  the  example  of  the  Senti- 
mental and  the  Romantic;  who  built  among  the  very  ruins  of 
the  classic  school,  amidst  its  Corinthian  columns  and  sweep- 
ing arches,  the  spires  and  battlements  of  the  Gothic, —  even 
3'ou  are  deserting  your  old  models  and  guiding  literature  into 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  109 

newer  and  wilder  paths.  'T  is  the  way  of  the  world:  eternal 
progress  is  eternal  change." 

"Very  possibly,"  said  Signor  Tirabaloschi,  who  understood 
nothing  of  what  was  said.  "Nay,  it  is  extremely  profound; 
on  reflection,  it  is  beautiful  —  superb!  you  English  are  so  — 
so;  in  short,  it  is  admirable.  Ugo  Foscolo  is  a  great  genius, 
so  is  Monti;  and  as  for  Rossini,  you  know  his  last  opera, — 
cosa  stiq^enda!" 

Madame  de  Montaigne  glanced  at  Maltravers,  clapped  her 
little  hands,  and  laughed  outright.  Maltravers  caught  the 
contagion,  and  laughed  also.  But  he  hastened  to  repair  the 
pedantic  error  he  had  committed  of  talking  over  the  heads 
of  the  company.  He  took  up  the  guitar,  which,  among  their 
musical  instruments,  the  serenaders  had  brought,  and  after 
touching  its  chords  for  a  few  moments,  said:  "After  all, 
Madame,  in  your  society,  and  with  this  moonlit  lake  l^efore 
us,  we  feel  as  if  music  were  our  best  medium  of  conversa- 
tion. Let  us  prevail  upon  these  gentlemen  to  delight  us 
once  more." 

"You  forestall  what  I  was  going  to  ask,"  said  the  ex- 
singer;  and  Maltravers  offered  the  guitar  to  Tirabaloschi, 
who  was,  in  fact,  dying  to  exhibit  his  powers  again.  He 
took  the  instrument  with  a  slight  grimace  of  modesty,  and 
then  saying  to  Madame  de  Montaigne,  "  There  is  a  song  com- 
posed by  a  young  friend  of  mine  which  is  much  admired  by 
the  ladies,  though  tome  it  seems  a  little  too  sentimental," 
sang  the  following  stanzas  (as  good  singers  are  wont  to  do) 
with  as  much  feeling  as  if  he  could  understand  them :  — 

NIGHT  AND  LOVE. 

"When  the  stars  are  in  the  quiet  skies, 

Then  most  I  pine  for  thee ; 
Bend  on  me,  then,  thy  tender  eyes, 

As  stars  look  on  the  sea ! 

For  thoughts,  like  waves  that  glide  hy  night, 

Are  stillest  where  they  shine  ; 
Mine  earthly  love  lies  hushed  in  light 

Beneath  the  heaven  of  thine. 


110  ERNEST  MALTRAYERS. 

TTiere  is  an  hour  when  angels  keep 

Familiar  watch  on  men, 
When  coarser  soals  are  wrapped  in  sleep,  — 

Sweet  spirit,  meet  me  then  ! 

There  is  an  hour  when  holy  dreams 

Through  slumber  fairest  glide ; 
And  in  that  mystic  hour  it  seems 

Thou  shoiddst  be  by  my  side. 

The  thoughts  of  thee  too  sacred  are 

For  daylight's  common  beam,  — 
I  car  but  know  thee  as  my  star, 

My  angel,  and  my  dream ! 

And  now,  the  example  set  and  the  praises  of  the  fair  host- 
ess exciting  general  emulation,  the  guitar  circled  from  hand 
to  hand,  and  each  of  the  Italians  performed  his  part;  you 
might  have  fancied  yourself  at  one  of  the  old  Greek  feasts, 
with  the  l^'re  and  the  myrtle-branch  going  the  round. 

But  both  the  Italians  and  the  Englishman  felt  the  enter- 
tainment would  be  incomplete  without  hearing  the  celebrated 
vocalist  and  imiirovvisatrice  who  presided  over  the  little  ban- 
quet; and  Madame  de  Montaigne,  with  a  woman's  tact,  di- 
vined the  general  wish,  and  anticipated  the  request  that  was 
sure  to  be  made.  She  took  the  guitar  from  the  last  singer, 
and  turning  to  Maltravers,  said,  "  You  have  heard,  of  course, 
some  of  our  more  eminent  improvvisatori,  and  therefore  if  I 
ask  you  for  a  subject,  it  will  only  be  to  prove  to  you  that  the 
talent  is  not  general  amongst  the  Italians." 

"Ah!  "  said  ]Maltravers,  "I  have  heard,  indeed,  some  ugly 
old  gentlemen  with  immense  whiskers,  and  gestures  of  the 
most  alarming  ferocity,  pour  out  their  vehement  impromptus; 
but  I  have  never  yet  listened  to  a  young  and  a  handsome  lady. 
I  shall  only  believe  the  inspiration  when  I  hear  it  direct  from 
the  Muse." 

"Well,  I  will  do  my  best  to  deserve  your  compliments; 
you  must  give  me  the  theme." 

Maltravers  paused  a  moment,  and  suggested  the  Influence 
of  Praise  on  Genius. 

The  improvvisatrlce  nodded  assent,  and  after  a  short  pre- 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  Ill 

lude  broke  forth  into  a  wild  and  varied  strain  of  verse,  in  a 
voice  so  exquisitely  sweet,  with  a  taste  so  accurate,  and  a 
feeling  so  deep,  that  the  poetry  sounded  to  the  enchanted  lis- 
teners like  the  language  that  Armida  might  have  uttered. 
Yet  the  verses  themselves,  like  all  extemporaneous  effusions, 
were  of  a  nature  both  to  pass  from  the  memory  and  to  defy 
transcription. 

When  Madame  de  Montaigne's  song  ceased,  no  rapturous 
plaudits  followed, —  the  Italians  were  too  much  affected  by 
the  science,  Maltravers  by  the  feeling,  for  the  coarseness  of 
ready  praise;  and  ere  that  delighted  silence  which  made  the 
first  impulse  was  broken,  a  new-comer,  descending  from  the 
groves  that  clothed  the  ascent  behind  the  house,  was  in 
the  midst  of  the  party. 

"Ah,  my  dear  brother,"  cried  Madame  de  Montaigne,  start- 
ing up,  and  hanging  fondly  on  the  arm  of  the  stranger,  "  why 
have  you  lingered  so  long  in  the  wood, —  you,  so  delicate? 
And  how  are  you?    How  pale  you  seem!  " 

"  It  is  but  the  reflection  of  the  moonlight,  Teresa,"  said  the 
intruder;  "I  feel  well."  So  saying,  he  scowled  on  the  merry 
party,  and  turned  as  if  to  slink  away. 

"No,  no,"  whispered  Teresa;  "you  must  stay  a  moment 
and  be  presented  to  my  guests.  There  is  an  Englishman 
here  whom  you  will  like,  who  will  interest  you."  With  that 
she  almost  dragged  him  forward,  and  introduced  him  to  her 
guests. 

Signor  Cesarini  returned  their  salutations  with  a  mixture 
of  bashfulness  and  hatitetir,  half -awkward  and  half-graceful, 
and  muttering  some  inaudible  greeting,  sank  into  a  seat  and 
appeared  instantly  lost  in  revery.  Maltravers  gazed  upon 
him,  and  was  pleased  with  his  aspect,  which,  if  not  hand- 
some, was  strange  and  peculiar.  He  was  extremely  slight 
and  thin,  his  cheeks  hollow  and  colourless,  with  a  profusion 
of  black  silken  ringlets  that  almost  descended  to  his  shoulders. 
His  eyes,  deeply  sunk  into  his  head,  were  large  and  intensely 
brilliant;  and  a  thin  mustache,  curling  downwards,  gave  an 
additional  austerity  to  his  mouth,  which  was  closed  with 
gloomy  and  half-sarcastic  firmness.     He  was  not  dressed  as 


112  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

people  dress  in  general,  but  wore  a  frock  of  dark  camlet,  with 
a  large  shirt-collar  turned  down,  and  a  narrow  slip  of  black 
silk  twisted  rather  than  tied  round  his  throat;  his  nether 
garments  fitted  tight  to  his  limbs,  and  a  pair  of  half-hessians 
completed  his  costume.  It  was  evident  that  the  young  man 
(and  he  was  very  young, —  perhaps  about  nineteen  or  twenty) 
indulged  that  coxcombry  of  the  Picturesque  which  is  the  sign 
of  a  vainer  mind  than  is  the  commoner  coxcombry  of  the  Mode. 

It  is  astonishing  how  frequently  it  happens  that  the  intro- 
duction of  a  single  intruder  upon  a  social  party  is  sufi&cient 
to  destroy  all  the  familiar  harmony  that  existed  there  before. 
We  see  it  even  when  the  intruder  is  agreeable  and  communi- 
cative ;  but  in  the  present  instance  a  ghost  could  scarcely  have 
been  a  more  unwelcoming  or  unwelcome  visitor.  The  pres- 
ence of  this  shy,  speechless,  supercilious-looking  man  threw 
a  damp  over  the  whole  group.  The  gay  Tirabaloschi  immedi- 
ately discovered  that  it  was  time  to  depart :  it  had  not  struck 
any  one  before,  but  it  certainly  tvas  late.  The  Italians  began 
to  bustle  about,  to  collect  their  music,  to  make  fine  speeches 
and  fine  professions,  to  bow  and  to  smile,  to  scramble  into 
their  boat,  and  to  push  off  towards  the  inn  at  Como,  where 
they  had  engaged  their  quarters  for  the  night.  As  the  boat 
glided  away,  and  while  two  of  them  were  employed  at  the 
oar,  the  remaining  four  took  up  their  instruments  and  sang  a 
parting  glee.  It  was  quite  midnight;  the  hush  of  all  things 
around  had  grown  more  intense  and  profound;  there  was  a 
wonderful  might  of  silence  in  the  shining  air  and  amidst  the 
shadows  throv\^n  by  the  near  banks  and  the  distant  hills  over 
the  water;  so  that  as  the  music  chiming  in  with  the  oars  grew 
fainter  and  fainter,  it  is  impossible  to  describe  the  thrilling 
and  magical  effect  it  produced. 

The  party  ashore  did  not  speak;  there  was  a  moisture  — 
a  grateful  one  —  in  the  bright  eyes  of  Teresa  as  she  leaned 
upon  the  manly  form  of  De  Montaigne,  for  whom  her  attach- 
ment was  perhaps  yet  more  deep  and  pure  for  the  difference 
of  their  ages.  A  girl  who  once  loves  a  man,  not  indeed  old, 
but  mucji  older  than  herself,  loves  him  with  such  a  looking 
up  and  venerating  love !    Maltravers  stood  a  little  apart  from 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  113 

the  couple,  on  tlie  edge  of  the  shelving  bank,  with  folded 
arms  and  thoughtful  countenance.  "How  is  it,"  said  he,  un- 
conscious that  he  was  speaking  half  aloud,  "  that  the  common- 
est beings  of  the  world  should  be  able  to  give  us  a  pleasure  so 
unworldly?  What  a  contrast  between  those  musicians  and 
this  music!  At  this  distance  their  forms  are  dimly  seen; 
one  might  almost  fancy  the  creators  of  those  sweet  sounds  to 
be  of  another  mould  from  us.  Perhaps  even  thus  the  poetry 
of  the  Past  rings  on  our  ears, —  the  deeper  and  the  diviner 
because  removed  from  the  clay  which  made  the  poets.  0  Art, 
Art,  how  dost  thou  beautify  and  exalt  us !  What  is  Nature 
without  thee?" 

"You  are  a  poet,  Signor,"  said  a  soft,  clear  voice  beside 
the  soliloquist;  and  Maltravers  started  to  find  that  he  had 
had,  unknowingly,  a  listener  in  the  young  Cesarini. 

"ISI'o,"  said  Maltravers;  "I  cull  the  flowers, —  I  do  not  cul- 
tivate the  soil." 

"And  why  not?  "  said  Cesarini,  with  abrupt  energy.  "You 
are  an  Englishman;  you  have  a  public;  you  have  a  country; 
you  have  a  living  stage,  a  breathing  audience, —  we  Italians 
have  nothing  but  the  dead." 

As  he  looked  on  the  young  man,  Maltravers  was  surprised 
to  see  the  sudden  animation  which  glowed  upon  his  pale 
features. 

"You  asked  me  a  question  I  would  fain  put  to  you,"  said 
the  Englishman,  after  a  pause.  "  You,  methinks,  are  a 
poet?" 

"  I  have  fancied  that  I  might  be  one.  But  poetry  with  us 
is  a  bird  in  the  wilderness, —  it  sings  from  an  impulse;  the 
song  dies  without  a  listener.  Oh  that  I  belonged  to  a  living 
country, —  France,  England,  Germany,  America, — and  not  to 
the  corruption  of  a  dead  giantess !  —  for  such  is  now  the  land 
of  the  ancient  lyre." 

"Let  us  meet  again,  and  soon,"  said  Maltravers,  holding 
out  his  hand. 

Cesarini  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  accepted  and  re- 
turned the  proffered  salutation.  Reserved  as  he  was,  some- 
thing in  Maltravers  attracted  him,  —  and,  indeed,  there  was 


114  ERNEST  MALTRAYERS. 

that  in  Ernest  which  fascinated  most  of  those  unhappy  eccen- 
trics who  do  not  move  in  the  common  orbit  of  the  world. 

In  a  few  moments  more  the  Englishman  had  said  farewell 
to  the  owner  of  the  villa,  and  his  light  boat  skimmed  rapidly- 
over  the  tide. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  Inglese?"  said  Madame  de 
Montaigne  to  her  husband  as  they  turned  towards  the  house. 
(They  said  not  a  word  about  the  Milanese.) 

"He  has  a  noble  bearing  for  one  so  young,"  said  the  French- 
man, "and  seems  to  have  seen  the  world,  and  both  to  have 
profited  and  to  have  suffered  by  it." 

"  He  will  prove  an  acquisition  to  our  society  here, "  returned 
Teresa, —  "he  interests  me.  And  you,  Castruccio?"  turning 
to  seek  for  her  brother;  but  Cesarini  had  already,  with  his 
usual  noiseless  step,  disappeared  within  the  house. 

"  Alas,  my  poor  brother ! "  she  replied,  "  I  cannot  compre- 
hend him.     What  does  he  desire?  " 

"  Fame !  "  replied  De  Montaigne,  calmly.  "  It  is  a  vain 
shadow, — no  wonder  that  he  disquiets  himself  in  vain." 


CHAPTER   II. 

Alas  !  what  boots  it  with  incessant  care 
To  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse  ? 
Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use, 
To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade, 
Or  with  the  tangles  of  Nesera's  hair  ? 

Milton  :  Li/cidas. 

There  is  nothing  more  salutary  to  active  men  than  occa- 
sional intervals  of  repose, — when  we  look  within,  instead  of 
without,  and  examine  almost  insenslhhj  (for  I  hold  strict  and 
conscious  self -scrutiny  a  thing  much  rarer  than  we  suspect) 
what  we  have  done,  what  we  are  capable  of  doing.  It  is  set- 
tling, as  it  were,  a  debtor  and  creditor  account  with  the  past 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  115 

before  we  plunge  into  new  speculations.  Sucli  an  interval 
of  repose  did  Maltravers  now  enjoy.  In  utter  solitude,  so  far 
as  familiar  companionship  is  concerned,  he  had  for  several 
weeks  been  making  himself  acc^uainted  with  his  own  charac- 
ter and  mind.  He  read  and  thought  much,  but  without  any 
exact  or  defined  object.  I  think  it  is  Montaigne  who  says 
somewhere:  "People  talk  about  thinking;  but  for  my  part,  I 
never  think,  except  when  I  sit  down  to  write."  I  believe 
this  is  not  a  very  common  case,  for  people  who  don't  write, 
think  as  well  as  people  who  do.  But  connected,  severe,  well- 
developed  thought,  in  contradistinction  to  vague  meditation, 
must  be  connected  with  some  tangible  plan  or  object;  and 
therefore  we  must  be  either  writing  men  or  acting  men,  if  we 
desire  to  test  the  logic  and  unfold  into  symmetrical  design 
the  fused  colours  of  our  reasoning  faculty.  JMaltravers  did 
not  yet  feel  this,  but  he  was  sensible  of  some  intellectual 
want.  His  ideas,  his  memories,  his  dreams  crowded  thick 
and  confused  upon  him ;  he  wished  to  arrange  them  in  order, 
and  he  could  not.  He  was  overpowered  by  the  unorganized 
affluence  of  his  own  imagination  and  intellect.  He  had  often, 
even  as  a  child,  fancied  that  he  was  formed  to  do  something 
in  the  world;  but  he  had  never  steadily  considered  what  it 
was  to  be,  whether  he  was  to  become  a  man  of  books  or  a 
man  of  deeds.  He  had  written  poetry  when  it  poured  irre- 
sistibly from  the  fount  of  emotion  within,  but  looked  at  his 
effusions  with  a  cold  and  neglectful  eye  when  the  enthusiasm 
had  passed  away. 

Maltravers  was  not  much  gnawed  by  the  desire  of  fame, — 
perhaps  few  men  of  real  genius  are,  until  artificially  worked 
up  to  it.  There  is  in  a  sound  and  correct  intellect,  with  all 
its  gifts  fairly  balanced,  a  calm  consciousness  of  power,  a 
certainty  that  when  its  strength  is  fairly  put  out,  it  must  be 
to  realize  the  usual  result  of  strength.  Men  of  second-rate 
faculties,  on  the  contrary,  are  fretful  and  nervous,  fidgeting 
after  a  celebrity  which  they  do  not  estimate  by  their  own  tal- 
ents, but  by  the  talents  of  some  one  else.  They  see  a  tower, 
but  are  occupied  only  with  measuring  its  shadow,  and  think 
their  own  height  (which  they  never  calculate)  is  to  cast  as 


116  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

broad  a  one  over  the  earth.  It  is  the  short  man  who  is  al- 
ways throwing  up  his  chin  and  is  as  erect  as  a  dart.  The  tall 
man  stoops,  and  the  strong  man  is  not  always  using  the 
dumb-bells. 

Maltravers  had  not  yet,  then,  the  keen  and  sharp  yearning 
for  reputation ;  he  had  not,  as  yet,  tasted  its  sweets  and  bit- 
ters,—  fatal  draught,  which,  once  tasted,  begets  too  often  an 
insatiable  thirst!  —  neither  had  he  enemies  and  decriers  whom 
he  was  desirous  of  abashing  by  merit.  And  that  is  a  very 
ordinary  cause  for  exertion  in  proud  rtiinds.  He  was,  it  is 
true,  generally  reputed  clever,  and  fools  were  afraid  of  him; 
but  as  he  actively  interfered  with  no  man's  pretensions,  so 
no  man  thought  it  necessary  to  call  him  a  blockhead.  At 
present,  therefore,  it  was  quietly  and  naturally  that  his  mind 
was  working  its  legitimate  way  to  its  destiny  of  exertion. 
He  began  idly  and  carelessly  to  note  down  his  thoughts  and 
impressions ;  what  was  once  put  on  the  paper,  begot  new  mat- 
ter; his  ideas  became  more  lucid  to  himself;  and  the  page 
grew  a  looking-glass,  which  presented  the  likeness  of  his  own 
features.  He  began  by  writing  with  rapidity,  and  without 
method.  He  had  no  object  but  to  please  himself  and  to  find 
a  vent  for  an  overcharged  spirit;  and,  like  most  writings  of 
the  young,  the  matter  was  egotistical.  We  commence  with 
the  small  nucleus  of  passion  and  experience,  to  widen  the 
circle  afterwards;  and  perhaps  the  most  extensive  and  uni- 
versal masters  of  life  and  character  have  begun  by  being 
egotists.  For  there  is  in  a  man  that  has  much  in  him  a 
wonderfully  acute  and  sensitive  perception  of  his  own  exist- 
ence. An  imaginative  and  susceptible  person  has,  indeed, 
ten  times  as  much  life  as  a  dull  fellow,  "an  he  be  Hercules." 
He  multiplies  himself  in  a  thousand  objects,  associates  each 
with  his  own  identity,  lives  in  each,  and  almost  looks  upon 
the  world  with  its  infinite  objects  as  a  part  of  his  individual 
being.  Afterwards,  as  he  tames  down,  he  withdraws  his  forces 
into  the  citadel ;  but  he  still  has  a  knowledge  of,  and  an  in- 
terest in,  the  land  they  once  covered.  He  understands  other 
people,  for  he  has  lived  in  other  people, —  the  dead  and  the 
living;    fancied  himself  now  Brutus,   and  now  Ctesar,   and 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  117 

thought  how  he  should  act  iu  almost  every  imaginable  cir- 
cumstance of  life. 

Thus,  when  he  begins  to  paint  human  characters  essentially 
different  from  his  own,  his  knowledge  comes  to  him  almost 
intuitively.  It  is  as  if  he  were  describing  the  mansions  in 
which  he  himself  has  formerly  lodged,  though  for  a  short 
time.  Hence  in  great  writers  of  History,  of  Eomance,  of  the 
Drama,  the  gusto  with  which  they  paint  their  personages, — 
their  creations  are  flesh  and  blood,  not  shadows  or  machines. 

Maltravers  was  at  first,  then,  an  egotist  in  the  matter  of  his 
rude  and  desultory  sketches ;  in  the  manner,  as  I  said  before, 
he  was  careless  and  negligent, —  as  men  will  be  who  have  not 
yet  found  that  expression  is  an  art.  Still,  those  wild  and 
valueless  essays,  those  rapt  and  secret  confessions  of  his  own 
heart,  were  a  delight  to  him.  He  began  to  taste  the  trans- 
port, the  intoxication,  of  an  author.  And  oh,  what  a  luxury 
is  there  in  that  first  love  of  the  Muse ;  that  process  by  which 
we  give  palpable  form  to  the  long-intangible  visions  which 
have  flitted  across  us,  —  the  beautiful  ghost  of  the  Ideal 
within  us,  which  we  invoke  in  the  Gadara  of  our  still  closets 
with  the  wand  of  the  simple  pen ! 

It  was  early  noon,  the  day  after  he  had  formed  his  acquaint- 
ance with  the  De  Montaignes,  that  Maltravers  sat  in  his  fa- 
vourite room, — the  one  he  had  selected  for  his  study  from  the 
many  chambers  of  his  large  and  solitary  habitation.  He  sat 
in  a  recess  by  the  open  window  which  looked  on  the  lake ;  and 
books  were  scattered  on  his  table,  and  Maltravers  was  jotting 
down  his  criticisms  on  what  he  read,  mingled  with  his  im- 
pressions on  what  he  saw.  It  is  the  pleasantest  kind  of  com- 
position,—  the  note-book  of  a  man  who  studies  in  retirement, 
who  observes  in  society,  who  in  all  things  can  admire  and 
feel.  He  was  yet  engaged  in  this  easy  task  when  Cesarini 
was  announced,  and  the  young  brother  of  the  fair  Teresa  en- 
tered his  apartment. 

"I  have  availed  myself  soon  of  your  invitation,"  said  the 
Italian. 

"I  acknowledge  the  compliment,"  replied  Maltravers, 
pressing  the  hand  shj^ly  held  out  to  him. 

"I  see  you  have  been  writing, — I  thought  you  were  at* 


118  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

tached  to  literature.  I  read  it  in  your  countenance,  I  heard 
it  in  your  voice,"  said  Cesarini,  seating  himself. 

"I  have  been  idly  beguiling  a  very  idle  leisure,  it  is  true," 
said  Maltravers. 

"But  you  do  not  write  for  yourself  alone,  you  have  an  eye 
to  the  great  tribunals, —  Time  and  the  Public." 

"Not  so,  I  assure  you  honestly,"  said  Maltravers,  smiling. 
"If  you  look  at  the  books  on  my  table,  you  will  see  that  they 
are  the  great  masterpieces  of  ancient  and  modern  lore.  These 
are  studies  that  discourage  tyros  —  " 

"But  inspire  them." 

"  I  do  not  think  so.  Models  may  form  our  taste  as  critics, 
but  do  not  excite  us  to  be  authors.  1  fancy  that  our  own 
emotions,  our  own  sense  of  our  destiny,  make  the  great  lever 
of  the  inert  matter  we  accumulate.  'Look  in  thy  heart,  and 
write,'  said  an  old  English  writer,^ —  who  did  not,  however, 
practise  what  he  preached.     And  you,  Signor  —  " 

"Am  nothing,  and  would  be  something,"  said  the  young 
man,  shortly  and  bitterly. 

"And  how  does  that  wish  not  realize  its  object?" 

"Merely  because  I  am  Italian,"  said  Cesarini.  "With  us 
there  is  no  literary  public, — no  vast  reading  class;  we  have 
dilettanti  and  literati  and  students,  and  even  authors;  but 
these  make  only  a  coterie,  not  a  public.  I  have  written,  I 
have  published;  but  no  one  listened  to  me.  T  am  an  author 
without  readers." 

"It  is  no  uncommon  case  in  England,"  said  Maltravers, 

The  Italian  continued :  "  I  thought  to  live  in  the  mouths  of 
men;  to  stir  up  thoughts  long  dumb;  to  awaken  the  strings 
of  the  old  lyre!  In  vain.  Like  the  nightingale,  I  sing  only 
to  break  my  heart  with  a  false  and  melancholy  emulation  of 
other  notes." 

"There  are  epochs  in  all  countries,"  said  Maltravers,  gently, 
"when  peculiar  veins  of  literature  are  out  of  vogue,  and 
when  no  genius  can  bring  them  into  public  notice.  But  you 
wisely  said  there  were  two  tribunals, — the  Public  and  Time. 
You  have  still  the  last  to  appeal  to.  Your  great  Italian  his- 
torians wrote  for  the  unborn, —  their  works  not  even  published 
1  Sir  rhilip  Sidney. 


ERNEST  MALTRAVEllS.  119 

till  their  death.  That  indifference  to  living  reputation  has  in 
it,  to  me,  something  of  the  sublime." 

"I  cannot  imitate  them, —  and  they  were  not  poets,"  said 
Cesarini,  sharply.  "To  poets,  praise  is  a  necessary  aliment, 
—  neglect  is  death." 

"My  dear  Signor  Cesarini,"  said  the  Englishman,  feelingly, 
"do  not  give  way  to  these  thoughts.  There  ought  to  be  in  a 
healthful  ambition  the  stubborn  stuff  of  persevering  longev- 
ity; it  must  live  on,  and  hope  for  the  day  which  comes,  slow 
or  fast,  to  all  whose  labours  deserve  the  goal." 

"  But  perhaps  mine  do  not.  I  sometimes  fear  so, —  it  is  a 
horrid  thought." 

"You  are  very  young  yet,"  said  Maltravers;  "how  few  at 
your  age  ever  sicken  for  fame!  That  first  step  is  perhaps  the 
half  way  to  the  prize." 

I  am  not  sure  that  Ernest  thought  exactly  as  he  spoke,  but 
it  was  the  most  delicate  consolation  to  offer  to  a  man  whose 
abrupt  frankness  embarrassed  and  distressed  him.  The  young 
man  shook  his  head  despondingly.  Maltravers  tried  to  change 
the  subject.  He  rose  and  moved  to  the  balcony,  which  over- 
hung the  lake;  he  talked  of  the  weather;  he  dwelt  on  the  ex- 
quisite scenery;  he  pointed  to  the  minute  and  more  latent 
beauties  around,  with  the  eye  and  taste  of  one  who  had  looked 
at  Nature  in  her  details.  The  poet  grew  more  animated  and 
cheerful;  he  became  even  eloquent;  he  quoted  poetry  and  he 
talked  it.  Maltravers  was  more  and  more  interested  in  him. 
He  felt  a  curiosity  to  know  if  his  talents  equalled  his  aspi- 
rations; he  hinted  to  Cesarini  his  wish  to  see  his  composi- 
tions: it  was  just  what  the  young  man  desired.  Poor 
Cesarini!  It  was  much  to  him  to  get  a  new  listener,  and  he 
fondly  imagined  every  honest  listener  must  be  a  warm  ad- 
mirer. But  with  the  coyness  of  his  caste,  he  affected  reluct- 
ance and  hesitation;  he  dallied  with  his  own  impatient 
yearnings.  And  Maltravers,  to  smooth  his  way,  proposed  an 
excursion  on  the  lake. 

"One  of  my  men  shall  row,"  said  he;  "you  shall  recite  to 
me,  and  I  will  be  to  you  what  the  old  housekeeper  was  to 
Moliere." 


120  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

Maltravers  had  deep  good-nature  where  he  -was  touched, 
though  he  had  not  a  superfluity  of  what  is  called  good-hu- 
mour, which  floats  on  the  surface  and  smiles  on  all  alike.  He 
had  much  of  the  milk  of  human  kindness,  but  little  of  its  oil. 

The  poet  assented,  and  they  were  soon  upon  the  lake.  It 
was  a  sultry  day,  and  it  was  noon;  so  the  boat  crept  slowly 
along  by  the  shadow  of  the  shore,  and  Cesarini  drew  from  his 
breast-pocket  some  manuscripts  of  small  and  beautiful  writ- 
ing. Who  does  not  know  the  pains  a  young  poet  takes  to 
bestow  a  fair  dress  on  his  darling  rhymes! 

Cesarini  read  well  and  feelingly.  Everything  was  in  fa- 
vour of  the  reader, —  his  own  poetical  countenance;  his  voice; 
his  enthusiasm,  half -suppressed;  the  pre-engaged  interest  of 
the  auditor;  the  dreamy  loveliness  of  the  hour  and  scene, — 
for  there  is  a  great  deal  as  to  time  in  these  things.  Mal- 
travers listened  intently.  It  is  very  difficult  to  judge  of  the 
exact  merit  of  poetry  in  another  language,  even  when  we 
know  that  language  well, —  so  much  is  there  in  the  untrans- 
latable magic  of  expression,  the  little  subtleties  of  style. 
But  Maltravers,  fresh,  as  he  himself  had  said,  from  the  study 
of  great  and  original  writers,  could  not  but  feel  that  he  was 
listening  to  feeble  though  melodious  mediocrity.  It  was  the 
poetry  of  words,  not  things.  He  thought  it  cruel,  however, 
to  be  hypercritical,  and  he  uttered  all  the  commonplaces  of 
eulogium  that  occurred  to  him.  The  young  man  was  en- 
chanted. "And  yet,"  said  he  with  a  sigh,  "I  have  no  Pub- 
lic. In  England  they  would  appreciate  me."  Alas!  in 
England  at  that  moment  there  were  five  hundred  poets  as 
young,  as  ardent,  and  yet  more  gifted,  whose  hearts  beat  with 
the  same  desire,  whose  nerves  were  broken  by  the  same 
disappointments. 

Maltravers  found  that  his  young  friend  would  not  listen 
to  any  judgment  not  purely  favourable.  The  archbishop  in 
"  Gil  Bias  "  was  not  more  touchy  upon  any  criticism  that  was 
not  panegyric.  Maltravers  thought  it  a  bad  sign;  but  he 
recollected  "Gil  Bias,"  and  prudently  refrained  from  bringing 
on  himself  the  benevolent  wish  of  "beaucoup  de  bonheur  et 
unpen  plus  de  bon  gout."     When  Cesarini  had  finished  his 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  121 

manuscript,  he  was  anxious  to  conclude  the  excursion, —  he 
longed  to  be  at  home,  and  think  over  the  admiration  he  had  ex- 
cited. But  he  left  his  poems  with  Maltravers,  and  getting  on 
shore  by  the  remains  of  Pliny's  villa,  was  soon  out  of  sight. 

Maltravers  that  evening  read  the  poems  with  attention. 
His  first  opinion  was  confirmed.  The  young  man  wrote  with- 
out knowledge.  He  had  never  felt  the  passions  he  painted, 
never  been  in  the  situations  he  described.  There  was  no 
originality  in  him,  for  there  was  no  experience;  it  was  ex- 
quisite mechanism,  his  verse, —  nothing  more.  It  might  well 
deceive  him,  for  it  could  not  but  flatter  his  ear, —  and  Tasso's 
silver  march  rang  not  more  musically  than  did  the  chiming 
stanzas  of  Castruccio  Cesarini. 

The  perusal  of  this  poetry,  and  his  conversation  with  the 
poet,  threw  Maltravers  into  a  fit  of  deep  musing.  "  This  poor 
Cesarini  may  warn  me  against  myself!  "  thought  he.  "Better 
hew  wood  and  draw  water  than  attach  ourselves  devotedly  to 
an  art  in  which  we  have  not  the  capacity  to  excel.  It  is  to 
throw  away  the  healthful  objects  of  life  for  a  diseased  dream; 
worse  than  the  Eosicrucians,  it  is  to  make  a  sacrifice  of  all 
human  beauty  for  the  smile  of  a  sylphid  that  never  visits  us 
but  in  visions."  Maltravers  looked  over  his  own  composi- 
tions, and  thrust  them  into  the  fire.  He  slept  ill  that  night. 
His  pride  was  a  little  dejected;  he  was  like  a  beauty  who  has 
seen  a  caricature  of  herself. 


CHAPTER   III. 

Still  follow  Sense,  of  every  art  the  Soul. 

Pope  :  Moral  Essays  {Essai/  iv  ). 

Ernest  Maltra^^rs  spent  much  of  his  time  with  the  fam- 
ily of  De  Montaigne.  There  is  no  period  of  life  in  which 
we  are  more  accessible  to  the  sentiment  of  friendship  than  in 
the  intervals  of  moral  exhaustion  which  succeed  to  the  disap- 


122  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

pointments  of  the  passions.  There  is,  then,  something  invit- 
ing in  those  gentler  feelings  which  keep  alive,  but  do  not 
fever,  the  circulation  of  the  affections.  Maltravers  looked 
with  the  benevolence  of  a  brother  upon  the  brilliant,  versa- 
tile, and  restless  Teresa.  She  was  the  last  person  in  the 
world  he  could  have  been  in  love  with;  for  his  nature,  ar- 
dent, excitable,  yet  fastidious,  required  something  of  repose  in 
the  manners  and  temperament  of  the  woman  whom  he  could 
love,  and  Teresa  scarcely  knew  what  repose  was.  Whether 
playing  with  her  children  (and  she  had  two  lovely  ones, —  the 
eldest  six  years  old),  or  teasing  her  calm  and  meditative  hus- 
band, or  pouring  out  extempore  verses,  or  rattling  over  airs, 
which  she  never  finished,  on  the  guitar  or  piano,  or  making 
excursions  on  the  lake,  or,  in  short,  in  whatever  occupation 
she  appeared  as  the  Cynthia  of  the  minute,  she  was  always 
gay  and  mobile,  never  out  of  humour,  never  acknowledging  a 
single  care  or  cross  in  life,  never  susceptible  of  grief,  save 
when  her  brother's  delicate  health  or  morbid  temper  saddened 
her  atmosphere  of  sunshine.  Even  then,  the  sanguine  elas- 
ticity of  her  mind  and  constitution  quickly  recovered  from 
the  depression;  and  she  persuaded  herself  that  Castruccio 
would  grow  stronger  every  year,  and  ripen  into  a  celebrated 
and  happy  man.  Castruccio  himself  lived  what  romantic 
poetasters  call  the  ''life  of  a  poet."  He  loved  to  see  the  sun 
rise  over  the  distant  Alps,  or  the  midnight  moon  sleeping  on 
the  lake.  He  spent  half  the  day,  and  often  half  the  night,  in 
solitary  rambles,  weaving  his  airy  rhymes  or  indulging  his 
gloomy  reveries,  and  he  thought  loneliness  made  the  element 
of  a  poet.  Alas !  Dante,  Alfieri,  even  Petrarch,  might  have 
taught  him  that  a  poet  must  have  intimate  knowledge  of  men  as 
well  as  mountains,  if  he  desire  to  become  the  Creator.  When 
Shelley,  in  one  of  his  prefaces,  boasts  of  being  familiar  with 
Alps  and  glaciers  and  Heaven  knows  what,  the  critical  artist 
cannot  help  wishing  that  he  had  been  rather  more  familiar 
with  Fleet  Street  or  the  Strand.  Perhaps  then  that  remark- 
able genius  might  have  been  more  capable  of  realizing  charac- 
ters of  flesh  and  blood,  and  have  composed  corporeal  and 
consummate  wholes,  not  confused  and  glittering  fragments. 


t 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  123 

Though  Ernest  was  attached  to  Teresa  and  deeply  interested 
in  Castruccio,  it  was  for  De  Montaigne  for  whom  he  experi- 
enced the  higher  and  graver  sentiment  of  esteem.  This 
Frenchman  was  one  acquainted  with  a  much  larger  world 
than  that  of  the  Coteries.  He  had  served  in  the  army,  had 
been  employed  with  distinction  in  civil  affairs,  and  was  of 
that  robust  and  healthful  moral  constitution  which  can  bear 
with  every  variety  of  social  life,  and  estimate  calmly  the  bal- 
ance of  our  moral  fortunes.  Trial  and  experience  had  left 
him  that  true  philosopher  who  is  too  wise  to  be  an  optimist, 
too  just  to  be  a  misanthrope.  He  enjoyed  life  with  sober 
judgment,  and  pursued  the  path  most  suited  to  himself,  with- 
out declaring  it  to  be  the  best  for  others.  He  was  a  little 
hard,  perhaps,  upon  the  errors  that  belong  to  weakness  and 
conceit,  —  not  to  those  that  have  their  source  in  great  natures 
or  generous  thoughts.  Among  his  characteristics  was  a  pro- 
found admiration  for  England.  His  own  country  he  half  loved, 
yet  half  disdained.  The  impetuosity  and  levity  of  his  com- 
patriots displeased  his  sober  and  dignified  notions.  He  could 
not  forgive  them  (lie  was  wont  to  say)  for  having  made  the 
two  grand  experiments  of  popular  revolution  and  military 
despotism  in  vain.  He  sympathized  neither  with  the  j^oung 
enthusiasts  who  desired  a  republic,  without  well  knowing  the 
numerous  strata  of  habits  and  customs  upon  which  that  fab- 
ric, if  designed  for  permanence,  should  be  built,  nor  with  the 
uneducated  and  fierce  chivalry  that  longed  for  a  restoration  of 
the  warrior  empire,  nor  with  the  dull  and  arrogant  bigots 
who  connected  all  ideas  of  order  and  government  with  the  ill- 
starred  and  worn-out  dynasty  of  the  Bourbons.  In  fact,  good 
SEXSE  was  with  him  the  princijnum  et  fons  of  all  theories 
and  all  practice;  and  it  was  this  quality  that  attached  him 
to  the  English.  His  philosophy  on  this  head  was  rather 
curious. 

"Good  sense,"  said  he  one  day  to  Maltravers,  as  they  were 
walking  to  and  fro  at  De  Montaigne's  villa,  by  the  margin  of 
the  lake,  "  is  not  a  merely  intellectual  attribute.  It  is  rather 
the  result  of  a  just  equilibrium  of  all  our  faculties,  spiritual 
and  moral.    The  dishonest,  or  the  toys  of  their  own  passions, 


124  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

may  have  genius,  but  tliey  rarely,  if  ever,  have  good  sense  in 
the  conduct  of  life.  They  may  often  win  large  prizes,  but  it 
is  by  a  game  of  chance,  not  skill.  But  the  man  whom  I  per- 
ceive walking  an  honourable  and  upright  career,  just  to  others, 
and  also  to  himself  (for  we  owe  justice  to  ourselves, — to  the 
care  of  our  fortunes,  our  character,  to  the  management  of  our 
passions),  is  a  more  dignified  representative  of  his  Maker 
than  the  mere  child  of  genius.  Of  such  a  man  we  say  he  has 
GOOD  SENSE, — ycs,  but  he  has  also  integrity,  self-respect,  and 
self-denial.  A  thousand  trials  which  his  sense  braves  and 
conquers,  are  temptations  also  to  his  probity,  his  temper, — 
in  a  word,  to  all  the  many  sides  of  his  complicated  nature. 
Now,  I  do  not  think  he  will  have  this  good  sense  any  more 
than  a  drunkard  will  have  strong  nerves,  unless  he  be  in  the 
constant  habit  of  keeping  his  mind  clear  from  the  intoxication 
of  envy,  vanity,  and  the  various  emotions  that  dupe  and  mis- 
lead us.  Good  sense  is  not,  therefore,  an  abstract  quality  or 
a  solitary  talent,  but  it  is  the  natural  result  of  the  habit  of 
thinking  justly,  and  therefore  seeing  clearly,  and  is  as  differ- 
ent from  the  sagacity  that  belongs  to  a  diplomatist  or  attorney 
as  the  philosophy  of  Socrates  differed  from  the  rhetoric  of 
Gorgias.  As  a  mass  of  individual  excellences  make  up  this 
attribute  in  a  man,  so  a  mass  of  such  men  thus  characterized 
give  a  character  to  a  nation.  Your  England  is  therefore  re- 
nowned for  its  good  sense ;  but  it  is  renowned  also  for  the  ex- 
cellences which  accompany  strong  sense  in  an  individual, — 
high  honesty  and  faith  in  its  dealings,  a  warm  love  of  justice 
and  fair  play,  a  general  freedom  from  the  violent  crimes  com- 
mon on  the  Continent,  and  the  energetic  perseverance  in  en- 
terprise once  commenced,  which  results  from  a  bold  and 
healthful  disposition." 

"Our  wars,  our  debt  —  "  began  Maltravers. 

"Pardon  me,"  interrupted  De  Montaigne,  "lam  speaking 
of  your  people,  not  of  your  government.  A  government  is 
often  a  very  unfair  representative  of  a  nation.  But  even  in 
the  wars  you  allude  to,  if  you  examine,  you  will  generally 
find  them  originate  in  the  love  of  justice,  which  is  the  basis 
of  good  sense,  not  from  any  insane  desire  of  conquest  or  glory. 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  125 

A  man,  however  sensible,  must  have  a  heart  in  his  bosom, 
and  a  great  nation  cannot  be  a  piece  of  selfish  clockwork. 
Suppose  you  and  I  are  sensible,  prudent  men,  and  we  see  in  a 
crowd  one  violent  fellow  unjustly  knocking  another  on  the 
head,  we  should  be  brutes,  not  men,  if  we  did  not  interfere 
with  the  savage;  but  if  we  thrust  ourselves  into  a  crowd 
with  a  large  bludgeon,  and  belabour  our  neighbours,  with  the 
hope  that  the  spectators  would  cry,  'See  what  a  bold,  strong 
fellow  that  is!' — then  we  should  be  only  playing  the  mad- 
man from  the  motive  of  the  coxcomb.  I  fear  you  will  find  in 
the  military  history  of  the  French  and  English  the  applica- 
tion of  my  parable." 

"  Yet  still,  I  confess,  there  is  a  gallantry  and  a  nobleman- 
like and  Norman  spirit  in  the  whole  French  nation  which 
make  me  forgive  many  of  their  excesses,  and  think  they  are 
destined  for  great  purposes,  when  experience  shall  have  so- 
bered their  hot  blood.  Some  nations,  as  some  men,  are  slow 
in  arriving  at  maturity;  others  seem  men  in  their  cradle. 
The  English,  thanks  to  their  sturdy  Saxon  origin,  elevated, 
not  depressed,  by  the  Norman  infusion,  never  were  children. 
The  difference  is  striking,  when  you  regard  the  representa- 
tives of  both  in  their  great  men,  whether  writers  or  active 
citizens." 

"Yes,"  said  De  Montaigne,  "in  Milton  and  Cromwell  there 
is  nothing  of  the  brilliant  child.  I  cannot  say  as  much  for 
Voltaire  or  Napoleon.  Even  Eichelieu,  the  manliest  of  our 
statesmen,  had  so  much  of  the  French  infant  in  him  as  to 
fancy  himself  a  beau  gargon,  a  gallant,  a  wit,  and  a  poet.  As 
for  the  Racine  school  of  writers,  they  were  not  out  of  the 
leading-strings  of  imitation,  —  cold  copyists  of  a  pseudo- 
classic  in  which  they  saw  the  form,  and  never  caught  the 
spirit.  What  so  little  Roman,  Greek,  Hebrew,  as  their 
Roman,  Greek,  and  Hebrew  dramas?  Your  rude  Shaks- 
peare's  'Julius  Caesar,'  even  his  'Troilus  and  Cressida,'  have 
the  ancient  spirit,  precisely  as  they  are  imitations  of  nothing 
ancient.  Bixt  our  Frenchmen  copied  the  giant  images  of  old 
just  as  the  school-girl  copies  a  drawing,  by  holding  it  up  to 
the  window  and  tracing  the  lines  on  silver  paper." 


126  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

"But  your  new  writers,  —  De  Stael,  Chateaubriand?"^ 

"I  find  no  fault  with  the  sentimentalists,"  answered  the 
severe  critic,  "  but  that  of  exceeding  feebleness.  They  have 
no  bone  and  muscle  in  their  genius ;  all  is  flaccid  and  rotund 
in  its  feminine  symmetry.  They  seem  to  think  that  vigour 
consists  in  florid  phrases  and  little  aphorisms,  and  delineate 
all  the  mighty  tempests  of  the  human  heart  with  the  polished 
prettiness  of  a  miniature-painter  on  ivory.  No;  these  two 
are  children  of  another  kind, —  affected,  tricked-out,  well- 
dressed  children,  very  clever,  very  precocious,  but  children 
still.  Their  whinings  and  their  sentimentalities  and  their 
egotism  and  their  vanity  cannot  interest  masculine  beings 
who  know  what  life  and  its  stern  objects  are." 

"Your  brother-in-law,"  said  Maltravers,  with  a  slight 
smile,   "must  find  in  you  a  discouraging  censor." 

"  My  poor  Castruccio !  "  replied  De  Montaigne,  with  a  half- 
sigh;  "he  is  one  of  those  victims  whom  I  believe  to  be  more 
common  than  we  dream  of, — men  whose  aspirations  are  above 
their  powers.  I  agree  with  a  great  German  writer,  that  in 
the  first  walks  of  Art  no  man  has  a  right  to  enter  unless  he 
is  convinced  that  he  has  strength  and  speed  for  the  goal. 
Castruccio  might  be  an  amiable  member  of  society,  —  nay,  an 
able  and  useful  man, —  if  he  would  apply  the  powers  he  pos- 
sesses to  the  rewards  they  may  obtain.  He  has  talent  enough 
to  win  him  reputation  in  any  profession  but  that  of  a  poet." 

"Biit  authors  who  obtain  immortality  are  not  always  first- 
rate." 

"First-rate  in  their  way,  I  suspect,  even  if  that  way  be 
false  or  trivial.  They  must  be  connected  with  the  history  of 
their  literature;  you  must  be  able  to  say  of  them,  'In  this 
school,  be  it  bad  or  good,  they  exerted  such  and  such  an  influ- 
ence, ' —  in  a  word,  they  must  form  a  link  in  the  great  chain  of 
a  nation's  authors,  which  may  be  afterwards  forgotten  by  the 
superficial,  but  without  wliieli  the  chain  would  be  incomplete. 
And  thus,  if  not  first-rate  for  all  time,  they  have  been  first- 

1  At  the  time  of  this  conversation  the  latter  school,  adorned  by  Victor 
Hugo,  who,  with  notions  of  art  elaborately  wrong,  is  still  a  man  of  extraor- 
dinary genius,  had  not  risen  into  its  present  equivocal  reputation. 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  127 

rate  in  their  own  day.  But  Castruccio  is  only  tlie  echo  of 
others, — he  can  neither  found  a  school  nor  ruin  one.  Yet 
this,"  again  added  De  Montaigne,  after  a  pause,  "this  mel- 
ancholy malady  in  my  brother-in-law  would  cure  itself,  per- 
haps, if  he  were  not  Italian.  In  your  animated  and  bustling 
country,  after  sufficient  disappointment  as  a  poet,  he  would 
glide  into  some  other  calling,  and  his  vanity  and  craving  for 
effect  would  find  a  rational  and  manly  outlet.  But  in  Italy, 
what  can  a  clever  man  do  if  he  is  not  a  poet  or  a  robber?  If 
he  love  his  country,  that  crime  is  enough  to  unfit  him  for 
civil  employment,  and  his  mind  cannot  stir  a  step  in  the  bold 
channels  of  speculation  without  falling  foiil  of  the  Austrian 
or  the  Pope.  No;  the  best  I  can  hope  for  Castruccio  is  that 
he  will  end  in  an  antiquary,  and  dispute  about  ruins  with  the 
Romans.     Better  that  than  mediocre  poetry." 

Maltravers  was  silent  and  thoughtful.  Strange  to  say,  De 
Montaigne's  views  did  not  discourage  his  own  new  and  secret 
ardour  for  intellectual  triumphs, —  not  because  he  felt  that  he 
was  now  able  to  achieve  them,  but  because  he  felt  the  iron  of 
his  own  nature,  and  knew  that  a  man  who  has  iron  in  his  na- 
ture must  ultimately  hit  upon  some  way  of  shaping  the  metal 
into  use. 

The  host  and  guest  were  now  joined  by  Castruccio  himself, 
—  silent  and  gloomy,  as  indeed  he  usually  was,  especially  in 
the  presence  of  De  Montaigne,  with  whom  he  felt  his  "  self- 
love"  wounded;  for  though  he  longed  to  despise  his  hard 
brother-in-law,  the  young  poet  was  compelled  to  acknowledge 
that  De  Montaigne  was  not  a  man  to  be  despised. 

Maltravers  dined  with  the  De  Montaignes  and  spent  the 
evening  with  them.  He  could  not  but  observe  that  Castruccio, 
who  affected  in  his  verses  the  softest  sentiments,  who  was,  in- 
deed, by  original  nature  tender  and  gentle,  had  become  so 
completely  warped  by  that  worst  of  all  mental  vices,  —  the 
eternally  pondering  on  his  own  excellences,  talents,  mortifica- 
tions, and  ill-usage, —  that  he  never  contributed  to  the  gratifi- 
cation of  those  around  him;  he  had  none  of  the  little  arts  of 
social  benevolence,  none  of  the  playful  youth  of  disposition 
which  usually  belongs  to  the  good-hearted,  and  for  which  men 


128  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

of  a  master-genius,  however  elevated  their  studies,  however 
stern  or  reserved  to  the  vulgar  world,  are  commonly  noticeable 
amidst  the  friends  they  love  or  in  the  home  they  adorn. 
Occupied  with  one  dream,  centred  in  self,  the  young  Italian 
was  sullen  and  morose  to  all  who  did  not  sympathize  with  his 
own  morbid  fancies.  From  the  children,  the  sister,  the  friend, 
the  whole  living  earth,  he  fled  to  a  poem  on  Solitude,  or 
stanzas  upon  Fame.  Maltravers  said  to  himself:  "I  will 
never  be  an  author,  I  will  never  sigh  for  renown,  if  I  am  to 
purchase  shadows  at  such  a  price  I  " 


CHAPTER  IV. 

It  cannot  be  too  deeply  impressed  on  the  mind  that  application  is  the  price 
to  be  paid  for  mental  acquisitions,  and  that  it  is  as  absurd  to  expect  them  with- 
out it  as  to  hope  for  a  harvest  where  we  have  not  sown  the  seed. 

In  everything  we  do,  we  may  be  possibly  laying  a  train  of  consequences, 
the  operation  of  which  may  terminate  only  with  our  existence. 

Bailey  :  Essays  on  the  Formation  and  Publication  of  Opinions. 

Time  passed,  and  autumn  was  far  advanced  towards  winter; 
still  Maltravers  lingered  at  Como.  He  saw  little  of  any 
other  family  than  that  of  the  De  Montaignes,  and  the  greater 
part  of  his  time  was  necessarily  spent  alone.  His  occupation 
continued  to  be  that  of  making  experiments  of  his  own  pow- 
ers, and  these  gradually  became  bolder  and  more  comprehen- 
sive. He  took  care,  however,  not  to  show  his  "  Diversions  of 
Como"  to  his  new  friends;  he  wanted  no  audience,  he 
dreamed  of  no  Public,  he  desired  merely  to  practise  his  own 
mind.  He  became  aware,  of  his  own  accord,  as  he  proceeded, 
that  a  man  can  neither  study  with  much  depth,  nor  compose 
with  much  art,  unless  he  has  some  definite  object  before  him, 
—  in  the  first,  some  one  branch  of  knowledge  to  master;  in 
the  last,  some  one  conception  to  work  out.  Maltravers  fell 
back  upon  his  boyish  passion  for  metaphysical  speculation; 
but  with  what  different  results  did  he  now  wrestle  with  the 
subtle  Schoolmen,  now  that  he  had  practically  known  man- 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  129 

kind!  How  insensibly  new  lights  broke  in  upon  him  as  he 
threaded  the  labyrinth  of  cause  and  effect  by  which  we  seek 
to  arrive  at  that  curious  and  biform  monster,  our  own  nature. 
His  mind  became  saturated,  as  it  were,  with  these  profound 
studies  and  meditations ;  and  when  at  length  he  paused  from 
them,  he  felt  as  if  he  had  not  been  living  in  solitude,  but  had 
gone  through  a  process  of  action  in  the  busy  world,  so  much 
juster,  so  much  clearer,  had  become  his  knowledge  of  himself 
and  others.  Bat  though  these  researches  coloured,  they  did 
not  limit,  his  intellectual  pursuits.  Poetry  and  the  lighter 
letters  became  to  him,  not  merely  a  relaxation,  but  a  critical 
and  thoughtful  study.  He  delighted  to  penetrate  into  the 
causes  that  have  made  the  airy  webs  spun  by  men's  fancies 
so  permanent  and  powerful  in  their  influence  over  the  hard, 
work-day  world.  And  what  a  lovely  scene,  what  a  sky,  what 
an  air  wherein  to  commence  the  projects  of  that  ambition 
which  seeks  to  establish  an  empire  in  the  hearts  and  memo- 
ries of  mankind!  I  believe  it  has  a  great  effect  on  the  future 
labours  of  a  writer, — the  place  where  he  first  dreams  that  it 
is  his  destiny  to  write! 

From  these  pursuits  Ernest  was  aroused  by  another  letter 
from  Cleveland.  His  kind  friend  had  been  disappointed  and 
vexed  that  Maltravers  did  not  follow  his  advice  and  return  to 
England;  he  had  shown  his  displeasure  by  not  answering 
Ernest's  letter  of  excuses.  But  lately  he  had  been  seized 
with  a  dangerous  illness  which  reduced  him  to  the  brink  of 
the  grave ;  and  with  a  heart  softened  by  the  exhaustion  of  the 
frame,  he  now  wrote  in  the  first  moments  of  convalescence  to 
Maltravers,  informing  him  of  his  attack  and  danger,  and  once 
more  urging  him  to  return.  The  thought  that  Cleveland,  the 
dear,  kind,  gentle  guardian  of  his  youth,  had  been  near  unto 
death,  that  he  might  never  more  have  hung  upon  that  foster- 
ing hand  nor  replied  to  that  paternal  voice,  smote  Ernest 
with  terror  and  remorse.  He  resolved  instantly  to  return  to 
England,  and  made  his  preparations  accordingly. 

He  went  to  take  leave  of  the  De  Montaigne s.  Teresa  was 
trying  to  teach  her  first-born  to  read ;  and  seated  by  the  open 
window  of  the  villa,  in  her  neat,  not  precise,  dishabille,  with 

9 


130  ERXEST   MALTRAVERS. 

the  little  boy's  delicate,  yet  bold  and  bealthy  countenance 
looking  up  fearlessly  at  hers,  while  she  was  endeavouring  to 
initiate  him  —  half  gravely,  half  laughingly  —  into  the  mys- 
teries of  monosyllables,  the  pretty  boy  and  the  fair  young 
mother  made  a  delightful  picture.  De  Montaigne  was  read- 
ing the  Essays  of  his  celebrated  namesake,  in  whom  he 
boasted,  I  know  not  with  what  justice,  to  claim  an  ancestor. 
From  time  to  time  he  looked  from  the  page  to  take  a  glance 
at  the  progress  of  his  heir  and  keep  up  with  the  march  of  in- 
tellect. But  he  did  not  interfere  with  the  maternal  lecture ; 
he  was  wise  enough  to  know  that  there  is  a  kind  of  sympathy 
between  a  child  and  a  mother  which  is  worth  all  the  grave 
superiority  of  a  father  in  making  learning  palatable  to  young 
years.  He  was  far  too  clever  a  man  not  to  despise  all  the 
systems  of  forcing  infants  under  knowledge-frames,  which 
are  the  present  fashion.  He  knew  that  philosophers  never 
made  a  greater  mistake  than  in  insisting  so  much  upon  begin- 
ning abstract  education  from  the  cradle.  It  is  quite  enough 
to  attend  to  an  infant's  temper,  and  correct  that  cursed  pre- 
dilection for  telling  fibs  which  falsifies  all  Dr.  Reid's  absurd 
theory  about  innate  propensities  to  truth,  and  makes  the  pre- 
vailing epidemic  of  the  nursery.  Above  all,  what  advantage 
ever  compensates  for  hurting  a  child's  health  or  breaking  his 
spirit?  Never  let  him  learn,  more  than  you  can  help  it,  the 
crushing  bitterness  of  fear.  A  bold  child  who  looks  you  in 
the  face,  speaks  the  truth  and  shames  the  devil,  —  that  is  the 
stuff  of  which  to  make  good  and  brave  —  ay,  and  wise  men. 

Maltravers  entered,  unannounced,  into  this  charming  family 
party,  and  stood  unobserved  for  a  few  moments  by  the  open 
door.  The  little  pupil  was  the  first  to  perceive  him,  and  for- 
getful of  monosyllables,  ran  to  greet  him;  for  Maltravers, 
though  gentle  rather  than  gay,  was  a  favourite  with  children, 
and  his  fair,  calm,  gracious  countenance  did  more  for  him 
with  them  than  if,  like  Goldsmith's  Burchell,  his  pockets  had 
been  filled  with  gingerbread  and  apples.  "Ah,  fie  on  you, 
Mr.  Maltravers!"  cried  Teresa,  rising;  "you  have  blown 
away  all  the  characters  I  have  been  endeavouring  this  last 
hour  to  imprint  upon  sand." 


ERXEST  MALTRAVERS.  131 

"Not  so,  Signora,"  said  Maltravers,  seating  himself,  and 
placing  the  child  on  his  knee;  "my  young  friend  will  set  to 
work  again  with  a  greater  gusto  after  this  little  break  in  upon 
his  labours." 

"You  will  stay  with  us  all  day,  I  hope?"  said  De 
Montaigne, 

"Indeed,"  said  Maltravers,  "I  am  come  to  ask  permission 
to  do  so,  for  to-morrow  I  depart  for  England." 

"Is  it  possible?"  cried  Teresa.  "How  sudden!  How  we 
shall  miss  you!  Oh!  don't  go.  But  perhaps  you  have  bad 
news  from  England?  " 

"I  have  news  that  summon  me  hence,"  replied  Maltravers; 
"  my  guardian  and  second  father  has  been  dangerously  ill.  I 
am  uneasy  about  him,  and  reproach  myself  for  having  for- 
gotten him  so  long  in  your  seductive  society." 

"I  am  really  sorry  to  lose  you,"  said  De  Montaigne,  with 
greater  warmth  in  his  tones  than  in  his  words.  "I  hope 
heartily  we  shall  meet  again  soon.  You  will  come,  perhaps, 
to  Paris?" 

"Probably,"  said  Maltravers;  "and  you,  perhaps,  to 
England?" 

"Ah,  how  I  should  like  it!  "  exclaimed  Teresa. 

"No,  you  would  not,"  said  her  husband;  "you  would  not 
like  England  at  all, — you  would  call  it  triste  beyond  measure. 
It  is  one  of  those  countries  of  which  a  native  should  be 
proud,  but  which  has  no  amusement  for  a  stranger,  precisely 
because  full  of  such  serious  and  stirring  occupations  to  the 
citizens.  The  pleasantest  countries  for  strangers  are  the  worst 
countries  for  natives  (witness  Italy);  and  vice  versa.'''' 

Teresa  shook  her  dark  curls,  and  would  not  be  convinced. 

"And  where  is  Castruccio?  "  asked  Maltravers. 

"In  his  boat  on  the  lake,"  replied  Teresa.  "He  will  be 
inconsolable  at  your  departure;  you  are  the  only  person  he 
can  understand,  or  who  understands  him,  —  the  only  person 
in  Italy,  I  had  almost  said  in  the  whole  world." 

"Well,  we  shall  meet  at  dinner,"  said  Ernest;  "mean- 
while, let  me  prevail  on  you  to  accompany  me  to  the  Plini- 
ana.     I  wish  to  say  farewell  to  that  crystal  spring." 


132  ERXEST  MALTRAVERS. 

Teresa,  delighted  at  any  excursion,  readily  consented. 

"And  I  too.  Mamma,"  cried  the  child,  "and  my  little 
sister?  " 

"  Oh,  certainly !  "  said  Maltravers,  speaking  for  the  parents. 

So  the  party  was  soon  ready,  and  they  pushed  oS  in  the 
clear,  genial  noontide  (for  November  in  Italy  is  as  early  as 
September  in  the  North)  across  the  sparkling  and  dimpled 
waters.  The  children  prattled,  and  the  grown-up  people 
talked  on  a  thousand  matters.  It  was  a  pleasant  day,  that 
last  day  at  Como ;  for  the  farewells  of  friendship  have  indeed 
something  of  the  melancholy,  but  not  the  anguish,  of  those 
of  love.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  we  could  get  rid  of 
love  altogether.  Life  would  go  on  smoother  and  happier 
without  it.  Friendship  is  the  wine  of  existence,  but  love  is 
the  dram-drinking. 

When  they  returned,  they  found  Castruccio  seated  on  the 
lawn.  He  did  not  appear  so  much  dejected  at  the  prospect  of 
Ernest's  departure  as  Teresa  had  anticipated;  for  Castruccio 
Cesarini  was  a  very  jealous  man,  and  he  had  lately  been  cha- 
grined and  discontented  with  seeing  the  delight  that  the  De 
Montaignes  took  in  Ernest's  society. 

"Why  is  this?"  he  often  asked  himself, —  "why  are  they 
more  pleased  with  this  stranger's  societ}'  than  mine?  My 
ideas  are  as  fresh,  as  original;  I  have  as  much  genius;  yet 
even  my  dry  brother-in-law  allows  his  talents,  and  predicts 
that  he  will  be  an  eminent  man,  while  / —  No,  one  is  not  a 
prophet  in  one's  own  country!  " 

Unhappy  young  man,  his  mind  bore  all  the  rank  weeds  of 
the  morbid  poetical  character,  and  the  weeds  choked  up  the 
flowers  that  the  soil,  properly  cultivated,  should  alone  bear! 
Yet  that  crisis  in  life  awaited  Castruccio,  in  which  a  sensitive 
and  poetical  man  is  made  or  marred,  —  the  crisis  in  which  a 
sentiment  is  replaced  by  the  passions ;  in  which  love  for  some 
real  object  gathers  the  scattered  rays  of  the  heart  into  a  focus. 
Out  of  that  ordeal  he  might  pass  a  purer  and  manlier  being, 
—  so  Maltravers  often  hoped.  Maltravers  then  little  thought 
how  closely  connected  with  his  own  fate  was  to  be  that  pas- 
sage in  the  history  of  the  Italian!     Castruccio  contrived  to 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  133 

take  Maltravers  aside,  and  as  he  led  the  Englishman  through 
the  wood  that  backed  the  mansion,  he  said,  with  some  em- 
barrassment, "You  go,  I  suppose,  to  London?" 

*'I  shall  pass  through  it.  Can  I  execute  any  commission 
for  you?" 

"Why,  yes;  my  poems!  I  think  of  publishing  them  in 
England.  Your  aristocracy  cultivate  the  Italian  letters ;  and 
perhaps  I  may  be  read  by  the  fair  and  noble,  —  that  is  the 
proper  audience  of  poets.    For  the  vulgar  herd,  I  disdain  it!  " 

"My  dear  Castruccio,  I  will  undertake  to  see  your  poems 
published  in  London,  if  you  wish  it;  but  do  not  be  sanguine. 
In  England  we  read  little  poetry,  even  in  our  own  language, 
and  we  are  shamefully  indifferent  to  foreign  literature." 

"Yes,  foreign  literature  generally,  and  you  are  right;  but 
my  poems  are  of  another  kind.  They  must  command  atten- 
tion in  a  polished  and  intelligent  circle." 

"Well,  let  the  experiment  be  tried;  you  can  let  me  have 
the  poems  when  we  part." 

"I  thank  you,"  said  Castruccio,  in  a  joyous  tone,  pressing 
his  friend's  hand;  and  for  the  rest  of  that  evening,  he  seemed 
an  altered  being,  —  he  even  caressed  the  children,  and  did  not 
sneer  at  the  grave  conversation  of  his  brother-in-law. 

When  Maltravers  rose  to  depart,  Castruccio  gave  him  the 
packet;  and  then,  utterly  engrossed  with  his  own  imagined 
futurity  of  fame,  vanished  from  the  room  to  indulge  his  rev- 
eries. He  cared  no  longer  for  Maltravers, —  he  had  put  him  to 
use ;  he  could  not  be  sorry  for  his  departure,  for  that  depart- 
ure was  the  Avatar  of  His  appearance  to  a  new  world! 

A  small,  dull  rain  was  falling,  though,  at  intervals,  the 
stars  broke  through  the  unsettled  clouds,  and  Teresa  did  not, 
therefore,  venture  from  the  house ;  she  presented  her  smooth 
cheek  to  the  young  guest  to  salute,  pressed  him  by  the  hand, 
and  bade  him  adieu  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  Ah !  "  said  she, 
"when  we  meet  again  I  hope  you  will  be  married, —  I  shall 
love  your  wife  dearly.  There  is  no  happiness  like  marriage 
and  home !  "  and  she  looked  with  ingenuous  tenderness  at  De 
Montaigne. 

Maltravers  sighed;  his  thoughts  flew  back  to  Alice.    Where 


134  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

now  was  that  lone  and  friendless  girl  whose  innocent  lore 
had  once  brightened  a  home  for  him?  He  answered  by  a 
vague  and  mechanical  commonplace,  and  quitted  the  room 
with  De  Montaigne,  who  insisted  on  seeing  him  depart.  As 
they  neared  the  lake,  De  Montaigne  broke  the  silence. 

"  My  dear  Maltravers, "  he  said,  with  a  serious  and  thought- 
ful affection  in  his  voice,  "we  may  not  meet  again  for  years. 
I  have  a  warm  interest  in  your  happiness  and  career,  —  yes, 
career ;  I  repeat  the  word.  I  do  not  habitually  seek  to  in- 
spire young  men  with  ambition.  Enough  for  most  of  them  to 
be  good  and  honourable  citizens.  But  in  your  case  it  is 
different.  I  see  in  you  the  earnest  and  meditative,  not  rash 
and  overweening,  youth  which  is  usually  productive  of  a  dis- 
tinguished manhood.  Your  mind  is  not  yet  settled,  it  is  true; 
but  it  is  fast  becoming  clear  and  mellow  from  the  first  fer- 
ment of  boyish  dreams  and  passions.  You  have  everything 
in  your  favour, — competence,  birth,  connections;  and,  above 
all,  you  are  an  Englishman.  You  have  a  mighty  stage,  on 
which,  it  is  true,  you  cannot  establish  a  footing  without  merit 
and  without  labour, —  so  much  the  better,  —  on  which  strong 
and  resolute  rivals  will  urge  you  on  to  emulation,  and  their 
competition  will  task  your  keenest  powers.  Think  what  a 
glorious  fate  it  is  to  have  an  influence  on  the  vast  but  ever- 
growing mind  of  such  a  country;  to  feel,  when  you  retire 
from  the  busy  scene,  that  you  have  played  an  unforgotten 
part,  that  you  have  been  the  medium,  under  God's  great  will, 
of  circulating  new  ideas  throughout  the  world, —  of  upholding 
the  glorious  priesthood  of  the  Honest  and  the  Beautiful. 
This  is  the  true  ambition;  the  desire  of  mere  personal  noto- 
riety is  vanity,  not  ambition.  Do  not,  then,  be  lukewarm  or 
supine.  The  trait  I  have  observed  in  you, "  added  the  Erench- 
man,  with  a  smile,  *'  most  prejudicial  to  your  chances  of  dis- 
tinction is  that  you  are  too  philosophical,  too  apt  to  cui-bono 
all  the  exertions  that  interfere  with  the  indolence  of  culti- 
vated leisure.  And  you  must  not  suppose,  Maltravers,  that 
an  active  career  will  be  a  path  of  roses.  At  present  you  have 
no  enemies;  but  the  moment  you  attempt  distinction,  you 
will  be  abused,  calumniated,  reviled.     You  will  be  shocked 


ERNEST  MALTR AVERS.  135 

at  the  wrath  you  excite,  and  sigh  for  your  old  obscurity,  and 
consider,  as  Franklin  has  it,  that  'you  have  paid  too  dear  for 
your  whistle,'  But  in  return  for  individual  enemies,  what 
a  noble  recompense  to  have  made  the  Public  itself  your  friend, 
perhaps  even  Posterity  your  familiar!  Besides,"  added  De 
Montaigne,  with  almost  a  religious  solemnity  in  his  voice, 
"  there  is  a  conscience  of  the  head  as  well  as  of  the  heart,  and 
in  old  age  we  feel  as  much  remorse  if  we  have  wasted  our 
natural  talents  as  if  we  had  perverted  our  natural  virtues. 
The  profound  and  exultant  satisfaction  with  which  a  man 
who  knows  that  he  has  not  lived  in  vain,  that  he  has  entailed 
on  the  world  an  heirloom  of  instruction  or  delight,  looks  back 
upon  departed  struggles,  is  one  of  the  happiest  emotions  of 
which  the  conscience  can  be  capable.  What,  indeed,  are  the 
petty  faults  we  commit  as  individuals,  affecting  but  a  narrow 
circle,  ceasing  with  our  own  lives,  to  the  incalculable  and 
everlasting  good  we  may  produce  as  public  men  by  one  book 
or  by  one  law?  Depend  upon  it  that  the  Almighty,  who  sums 
up  all  the  good  and  all  the  evil  done  by  his  creatures  in  a  just 
balance,  will  not  judge  the  august  benefactors  of  the  world 
with  the  same  severity  as  those  drones  of  society  who  have  no 
great  services  to  show  in  the  eternal  ledger  as  a  set-off  to  the 
indulgence  of  their  small  vices.  These  things  rightly  consid- 
ered, Maltravers,  you  will  have  every  inducement  that  can 
tempt  a  lofty  mind  and  a  pure  ambition  to  awaken  from  the 
voluptuous  indolence  of  the  literary  Sybarite,  and  contend 
worthily  in  the  world's  wide  Altis  for  a  great  prize." 

Maltravers  never  before  felt  so  flattered,  so  stirred  into  high 
resolves.  The  stately  eloquence,  the  fervid  encouragement,  of 
this  man,  usually  so  cold  and  fastidious,  roused  him  like  the 
sound  of  a  trumpet.  He  stopped  short,  his  breath  heaved 
thick,  his  cheek  flushed.  "De  Montaigne,"  said  he,  "your 
words  have  cleared  away  a  thousand  doubts  and  scruples, — 
they  have  gone  right  to  my  heart.  For  the  first  time  I  under- 
stand what  fame  is,  —  what  the  object  and  what  the  reward  of 
labour!  Visions,  hopes,  aspirations,  I  may  have  had  before; 
for  months  a  new  spirit  has  been  fluttering  within  me.  I 
have  felt  the  wings  breaking  from  the  shell ;  but  all  was  con- 


136  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

fused,  dim,  uncertain.  I  doubted  the  wisdom  of  effort,  with 
life  so  short  and  the  pleasures  of  youth  so  sweet.  I  now  look 
no  longer  on  life  but  as  a  part  of  the  eternity  to  which  I  feel 
we  were  born,  and  I  recognize  the  solemn  truth  that  our  ob- 
jects, to  be  worthy  life,  should  be  worthy  of  creatures  in 
whom  the  living  principle  never  is  extinct.  Farewell !  come 
joy  or  sorrow,  failure  or  success,  I  will  struggle  to  deserve 
your  friendship." 

Maltravers  sprang  into  his  boat,  and  the  shades  of  night 
soon  snatched  him  from  the  lingering  gaze  of  De  Montaigne. 


j 


BOOK    IV. 


e'lrl  Se  leV&J 
Naieis  x^'"'^>  '''"^  afdirSpov 
Kolras  d\€(ra(ra  \eKTpoy 

ToAairo. 

Euripides  :  Medea,  442. 

Strange  is  the  land  that  holds  thee,  and  thy  conch 
Is  widowed  of  the  loved  one.  —  Translation  by  R.  G. 


CHAPTER  I. 

I,  ALAS  ! 

Have  lived  but  on  this  eartli  a  few  sad  years  ; 
And  so  my  lot  was  ordered,  that  a  father 
First  turned  the  moments  of  awakening  life 
To  drops,  each  poisoning  youth's  sweet  hope. 

Cenct. 

From  accompanying  Maltravers  along  the  noiseless  progress 
of  mental  education,  we  are  now  called  a  while  to  cast  our 
glances  back  at  the  ruder  and  harsher  ordeal  which  Alice 
Darvil  was  ordained  to  pass.  Along  her  path  poetry  shed  no 
flowers,  nor  were  her  lonely  steps  towards  the  distant  shrine 
at  which  her  pilgrimage  found  its  rest  lighted  by  the  mystic 
lamp  of  science,  or  guided  by  the  thousand  stars  which  are 
never  dim  in  the  heavens  for  those  favoured  eyes  from  which 
genius  and  fancy  have  removed  many  of  the  films  of  clay. 
Not  along  the  aerial  and  exalted  ways  that  wind  far  above 
the  homes  and  business  of  common  men,  —  the  solitary  Alps 
of  Spiritual  Philosophy, —  wandered  the  desolate  steps  of  the 
child  of  poverty  and  sorrow.  On  the  beaten  and  rugged  high- 
ways of  common  life,  with  a  weary  heart  and  with  bleeding 


138  ERNEST   MALTRAYERS. 

feet,  she  went  her  melancholy  course.  But  the  goal  which  is 
the  great  secret  of  life,  the  sutmnuni  arcanum  of  all  philoso- 
phy, whether  the  Practical  or  the  Ideal,  was  perhaps  no  less 
attainable  for  that  humble  girl  than  for  the  elastic  step  and 
aspiring  heart  of  him  who  thirsted  after  the  Great  and  almost 
believed  in  the  Impossible. 

We  return  to  that  dismal  night  in  which  Alice  was  torn 
from  the  roof  of  her  lover.  It  was  long  before  she  recovered 
her  consciousness  of  what  had  passed,  and  gained  a  full  per- 
ception of  the  fearful  revolution  which  had  taken  place  in  her 
destinies.  It  was  then  a  gray  and  dreary  morning  twilight; 
and  the  rude  but  covered  vehicle  which  bore  her  was  rolling 
along  the  deep  ruts  of  an  unfrequented  road,  winding  among 
the  uninclosed  and  mountainous  wastes  that,  in  England, 
usually  betoken  the  neighbourhood  of  the  sea.  With  a  shud- 
der Alice  looked  round:  Walters,  her  father's  accomplice, 
lay  extended  at  her  feet,  and  his  heavy  breathing  showed  that 
he  was  fast  asleep.  Darvil  himself  was  urging  on  the  jaded 
and  sorry  horse,  and  his  broad  back  was  turned  towards  Alice; 
the  rain,  from  which,  in  his  position,  he  was  but  ill  protected 
by  the  awning,  dripped  dismally  from  his  slouched  hat;  and 
now,  as  he  turned  round,  and  his  sinister  and  gloomy  gaze 
rested  upon  the  face  of  Alice,  his  bad  countenance,  rendered 
more  haggard  by  the  cold,  raw  light  of  the  cheerless  dawn, 
completed  the  hideous  picture  of  unveiled  and  ruffianly 
wretchedness. 

"Ho,  ho!  Alley,  so  you  are  come  to  your  senses,"  said  he, 
with  a  kind  of  joyless  grin.  "  I  am  glad  of  it,  for  I  can  have 
no  fainting  fine  ladies  with  me.  You  have  had  a  long  holi- 
day, Alley;  you  must  now  learn  once  more  to  work  for  your 
poor  father.  Ah,  you  have  been  d — d  sly!  But  never 
mind  the  past, —  I  forgive  it.  You  must  not  run  away  again 
without  my  leave;  if  you  are  fond  of  sweethearts  I  won't 
balk  you,  but  your  old  father  must  go  shares,  Alley." 

Alice  could  hear  no  more;  she  covered  her  face  with  the 
cloak  that  had  been  thrown  about  her,  and  though  she  did  not 
faint,  her  senses  seemed  to  be  locked  and  paralyzed.  By 
and  by  Walters  woke,  and  the  two  men,  heedless  of  her  pres- 


ERXEST  MALTRAVERS.  139 

ence,  conversed  upon  their  plans.  By  degrees  she  recovered 
sufficient  self-possession  to  listen,  in  the  instinctive  hope  that 
some  plan  of  escape  might  be  suggested  to  her.  But  from 
what  she  could  gather  of  the  incoherent  and  various  projects 
they  discussed,  one  after  another, —  disputing  upon  each  with 
frightful  oaths  and  scarce  intelligible  slang, —  she  could  only 
learn  that  it  was  resolved  at  all  events  to  leave  the  district  in 
which  they  were;  but  whither,  seemed  yet  all  undecided. 
The  cart  halted  at  last  at  a  miserable-looking  hut,  which  the 
signpost  announced  to  be  an  inn  that  afforded  good  accommo- 
dation to  travellers ;  to  which  announcement  was  annexed  the 
following  epigrammatic  distich :  — 

"Old  Tom  he  is  the  best  of  gin  ; 
Driuk  him  once,  and  you  '11  drink  him  agin  !  " 

The  hovel  stood  so  remote  from  all  other  habitations,  and 
the  waste  around  was  so  bare  of  trees,  and  even  shrubs,  that 
Alice  saw  with  despair  that  all  hope  of  flight  in  such  a  place 
would  be  indeed  a  chimera.  But  to  make  assurance  doubly 
sure,  Darvil  himself,  lifting  her  from  the  cart,  conducted  her 
up  a  broken  and  unlighted  staircase  into  a  sort  of  loft  rather 
than  a  room,  and  rudely  pushing  her  in,  turned  the  key  upon 
her  and  descended.  The  weather  was  cold,  the  livid  damps 
hung  upon  the  distained  walls,  and  there  was  neither  tire  nor 
hearth;  but  thinly  clad  as  she  was, —  her  cloak  and  shawl  her 
principal  covering, — she  did  not  feel  the  cold,  for  her  heart 
was  more  chilly  than  the  airs  of  heaven.  At  noon  an  old 
woman  brought  her  some  food,  which,  consisting  of  fish  and 
poached  game,  was  better  than  might  have  been  expected  in 
such  a  place,  and  what  would  have  been  deemed  a  feast  under 
her  father's  roof.  With  an  inviting  leer,  the  crone  pointed 
to  a  pewter  measure  of  raw  spirits  that  accompanied  the 
viands,  and  assured  her,  in  a  cracked  and  maudlin  voice, 
that  "  Old  Tom  "  was  a  kinder  friend  than  any  of  the  young 
fellers!  This  intrusion  ended,  Alice  was  again  left  alone 
till  dusk,  when  Darvil  entered  with  a  bundle  of  clothes  such 
as  are  worn  by  the  peasants  of  that  primitive  district  of 
Ensrland. 


140  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

"There,  Alley, ""  said  he,  "put  on  this  warm  toggery, —  fin- 
ery won't  do  now.  We  must  leave  no  scent  in  the  track;  the 
hounds  are  after  us,  my  little  blowen.  Here's  a  nice  stuff 
gown  for  you,  and  a  red  cloak  that  would  frighten  a  turkey- 
cock.  As  to  the  other  cloak  and  shawl,  don't  be  afraid, — 
they  sha'n't  go  to  the  pop-shop,  but  we  '11  take  care  of  them 
against  we  get  to  some  large  town  where  there  are  young  fel- 
lows with  blunt  in  their  pockets;  for  you  seem  to  have  al- 
ready found  out  that  your  face  is  your  fortune,  Alley. 
Come,  make  haste;  we  must  be  starting.  I  shall  come  up 
for  you  in  ten  minutes.  Pish!  don't  be  faint-hearted;  here, 
take  'Old  Tom,'— take  it,  I  say.  What,  you  won't?  Well, 
here  's  to  your  health,  and  a  better  taste  to  you!  " 

And  now,  as  the  door  once  more  closed  upon  Darvil,  tears 
for  the  first  time  came  to  the  relief  of  Alice.  It  was  a 
woman's  weakness  that  procured  for  her  that  woman's  lux- 
ury. Those  garments,  —  they  were  Ernest's  gift,  Ernest's 
taste ;  they  were  like  the  last  relic  of  that  delicious  life  which 
now  seemed  to  have  fled  forever.  All  traces  of  that  life, —  of 
him,  the  loving,  the  protecting,  the  adored;  all  trace  of  her- 
self, as  she  had  been  re-created  by  love,  was  to  be  lost  to  her 
forever.  It  was  —  as  she  had  read  somewhere,  in  the  little 
elementary  volumes  that  bounded  her  historic  lore  —  like  that 
last  fatal  ceremony  in  which  those  condemned  for  life  to  the 
mines  of  Siberia  are  clothed  with  the  slave's  livery,  their 
past  name  and  record  eternally  blotted  out,  and  thrust  into 
the  vast  wastes  from  which  even  the  mercy  of  despotism, 
should  it  ever  re-awaken,  cannot  recall  them ;  for  all  evidence 
of  them,  all  individuality,  all  mark  to  distinguish  them  from 
the  universal  herd,  is  expunged  from  the  world's  calendar. 
She  was  still  sobbing  in  vehement  and  unrestrained  passion, 
when  Darvil  re-entered.  "What,  not  dressed  yet?"  he  ex- 
claimed, in  a  voice  of  impatient  rage.  "  Hark  ye,  this  won't 
do.  If  in  two  minutes  you  are  not  ready,  I  '11  send  up  John 
Walters  to  help  you;  and  he  is  a  rough  hand,  I  can  tell  you." 

This  threat  recalled  Alice  to  herself.  "I  will  do  as  you 
wish,"  said  she,  meekly. 

"Well,  then,  be  quick,"  said  Darvil;  "they  are  now  put- 


ERNEST  MALTRAYERS.  141 

ting  the  horse  to.  And  mark  me,  girl,  your  father  is  running 
away  from  the  gallows;  and  that  thought  does  not  make  a 
man  stand  upon  scruples.  If  you  once  attempt  to  give  me  the 
slip,  or  do  or  say  anything  that  can  bring  the  bulkies  upon, 
us,  by  the  devil  in  hell, —  if  indeed  there  be  hell  or  devil, — 
my  knife  shall  become  better  acquainted  with  that  throat;  so 
look  to  it!" 

And  this  was  the  father,  this  the  condition,  of  her  whose 
ear  had  for  months  drunk  no  other  sound  than  the  whispers 
of  flattering  love, — the  murmurs  of  Passion  from  the  lips  of 
Poetry ! 

They  continued  their  journey  till  midnight;  they  then  ar- 
rived at  an  inn  little  different  from  the  last,  —  but  here  Alice 
was  no  longer  consigned  to  solitude.  In  a  long  room,  reek- 
ing with  smoke,  sat  from  twenty  to  thirty  ruffians  before  a 
table  on  which  mugs  and  vessels  of  strong  potations  were 
formidably  interspersed  with  sabres  and  pistols.  They  re- 
ceived Walters  and  Darvil  with  a  shout  of  welcome,  and 
would  have  crowded  somewhat  unceremoniously  round  Alice, 
if  her  father,  whose  well-known  desperate  and  brutal  feroc- 
ity made  him  a  man  to  be  respected  in  such  an  assembly,  had 
not  said  sternly:  *' Hands  off,  messmates,  and  make  way  by 
the  fire  for  my  little  girl, —  she  is  meat  for  your  masters." 

So  saying,  he  pushed  Alice  down  into  a  huge  chair  in  the 
chimney-nook,  and,  seating  himself  near  her  at  the  end  of  the 
table,  hastened  to  turn  the  conversation. 

•'Well,  Captain,"  said  he,  addressing  a  small,  thin  man  at 
the  head  of  the  table,  "  I  and  Walters  have  fairly  cut  and 
run;  the  land  has  a  bad  air  for  us,  and  we  now  want  the  sea- 
breeze  to  cure  the  rope-fever.  So,  knowing  this  was  your 
night,  we  have  crowded  sail,  and  here  we  are.  You  miist 
give  the  girl  there  a  lift,  though  I  know  you  don't  like  such 
lumber,  and  we  '11  run  ashore  as  soon  as  we  can." 

"She  seems  a  quiet  little  body,"  replied  the  captain;  "and 
we  would  do  more  than  that  to  oblige  an  old  friend  like  you. 
In  half  an  hour  Oliver  ^  puts  on  his  nightcap,  and  we  must 
then  be  off." 

^  The  moou. 


142  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

"The  sooner  the  better." 

The  men  now  appeared  to  forget  the  presence  of  Alice,  who 
sat  faint  with  fatigue  and  exhaustion, — for  she  had  been  too 
sick  at  heart  to  touch  the  food  brought  to  her  at  their  previ- 
ous halting-place, —  gazing  abstractedly  upon  the  fire.  Her 
father  before  their  departure  made  her  swallow  some  morsels 
of  sea-biscuit,  though  each  seemed  to  choke  her;  and  then, 
wrapped  in  a  thick  boat-cloak,  she  was  placed  in  a  small  well- 
built  cutter;  and  as  the  sea-winds  whistled  round  her,  the 
present  cold  and  the  past  fatigues  lulled  her  miserable  heart 
into  the  arms  of  the  charitable  Sleep. 


CHAPTER   II. 

You  are  once  more  a  free  woman ; 
Here  I  discharge  your  bonds. 

The  Custom  of  the  Country. 

And  many  were  thy  trials,  poor  child;  many  that,  were 
this  book  to  germinate  into  volumes  more  numerous  than 
monk  ever  composed  upon  the  lives  of  saint  or  martyr, — 
though  a  hundred  volumes  contained  the  record  of  two  years 
only  in  the  life  of  Saint  Anthony, —  it  would  be  impossible  to 
describe!  We  may  talk  of  the  fidelity  of  books,  but  no  man 
ever  wrote  even  his  own  biography  without  being  compelled 
to  omit  at  least  nine  tenths  of  the  most  important  materials. 
What  are  three,  what  six  volumes?  We  live  six  volumes  in 
a  day!  Thought,  emotion,  joy,  sorrow,  hope,  fear, —  how 
prolix  would  they  be  if  they  might  each  tell  their  hourly 
tale!  But  man's  life  itself  is  a  brief  epitome  of  that  which 
is  infinite  and  everlasting;  and  his  most  accurate  confessions 
are  a  miserable  abridgment  of  a  hurried  and  confused 
compendium! 


ERXEST  MALTRAVERS.  143 

It  was  about  three  months  or  more  from  the  night  in  which 
Alice  wept  herself  to  sleep  amongst  those  wild  companions, 
when  she  contrived  to  escape  from  her  father's  vigilant  eye. 
They  were  then  on  the  coast  of  Ireland.  Darvil  had  sepa- 
rated himself  from  Walters,  from  his  seafaring  companions; 
he  had  run  through  the  greater  part  of  the  money  his  crimes 
had  got  together;  he  began  seriously  to  attempt  putting  into 
execution  his  horrible  design  of  depending  for  support  upon 
the  sale  of  his  daughter.  Now,  Alice  might  have  been 
molded  into  sinful  purposes  before  she  knew  Maltravers;  but 
from  that  hour  her  very  error  made  her  virtuous,  —  she  had 
comprehended,  the  moment  she  loved,  what  was  meant  by 
female  honour ;  and  by  a  sudden  revelation  she  had  purchased 
modest}^,  delicacy  of  thought  and  soul,  in  the  sacrifice  of  her- 
self. Much  of  our  morality  (prudent  and  right  upon  system) 
with  respect  to  the  first  false  step  of  women  leads  us,  as  we 
all  know,  into  barbarous  errors  as  to  individual  exceptions. 
Where  from  pure  and  confiding  love  that  first  false  step  has 
been  taken,  many  a  woi^an  has  been  saved  in  after  life  from 
a  thousand  temptations.  The  poor  unfortunates  who  crowd 
our  streets  and  theatres  have  rarely  in  the  first  instance  been 
corrupted  by  love,  but  by  poverty,  and  the  contagion  of  cir- 
cumstance and  example.  It  is  a  miserable  cant  phrase  to  call 
them  the  victims  of  seduction, —  they  have  been  the  victims 
of  hunger,  of  vanity,  of  curiosity,  of  e\'\\  female  counsels;  but 
the  seduction  of  love  hardly  ever  conducts  to  a  life  of  vice. 
If  a  woman  has  once  really  loved,  the  beloved  object  makes 
an  impenetrable  barrier  between  her  and  other  men;  their 
advances  terrify  and  revolt,  —  she  would  rather  die  than  be 
unfaithful  even  to  a  memory.  Though  man  loves  the  sex, 
woman  loves  only  the  individual;  and  the  more  she  loves 
him,  the  more  cold  she  is  to  the  species.  For  the  passion  of 
woman  is  in  the  sentiment,  the  fancy,  the  heart.  It  rarely 
has  much  to  do  with  the  coarse  images  with  which  boys  and 
old  men  —  the  inexperienced  and  the  worn-out  —  connect  it. 

But  Alice,  though  her  blood  ran  cold  at  her  terrible  father's 
language,  saw  in  his  very  design  the  prospect  of  escape.  In 
an  hour  of  drunkenness  he  thrust  her  from  the  house  and  sta- 


144  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

tioned  himself  to  watch  her;  it  was  in  the  city  of  Cork.  She 
formed  her  resolution  instantly,  —  turned  up  a  narrow  street, 
and  fled  at  full  speed.  Darvil  endeavoured  in  vain  to  keep 
pace  with  her,  his  eyes  dizzy,  his  steps  reeling  with  intoxica- 
tion. She  heard  his  last  curse  dying  from  a  distance  on  the 
air,  and  her  fear  winged  her  steps;  she  paused  at  last,  and 
found  herself  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  She  paused, 
overcome,  and  deadly  faint;  and  then,  for  the  first  time,  she 
felt  that  a  strange  and  new  life  was  stirring  within  her  own. 
She  had  long  since  known  that  she  bore  in  her  womb  the  un- 
born offspring  of  Maltravers,  and  that  knowledge  had  made 
her  struggle  and  live  on.  But  now  the  embryo  had  quick- 
ened into  being;  it  moved,  it  appealed  to  her, —  a  thing  un- 
seen, unknown;  but  still  it  was  a  living  creature  appealing  to 
a  mother!  Oh,  the  thrill,  half  of  ineffable  tenderness,  half 
of  mysterious  terror,  at  that  moment!  What  a  new  chapter 
in  the  life  of  woman  did  it  not  announce!  Now,  then,  she 
must  be  watchful  over  herself, —  must  guard  against  fatigue, 
must  wrestle  with  despair.  Solemn  was  the  trust  committed 
to  her,  —  the  life  of  another,  the  child  of  the  Adored!  It  was 
a  summer  night;  she  sat  on  a  rude  stone,  the  city  on  one  side, 
with  its  lights  and  lamps, —  the  whitened  fields  beyond,  with 
the  moon  and  the  stars  above;  and  above  she  raised  her 
streaming  eyes,  and  she  thought  that  God  the  Protector  smiled 
upon  her  from  the  face  of  the  sweet  skies.  So,  after  a  pause 
and  a  silent  prayer,  she  rose  and  resumed  her  way.  When 
she  was  wearied  she  crept  into  a  shed  in  a  farmyard,  and 
slept,  for  the  first  time  for  weeks,  the  calm  sleep  of  security 
and  hope. 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  145 


CHAPTER    III. 

How  like  a  prodigal  doth  she  return, 
With  over-weathered  rihs  and  ragged  sails. 

Merchant  of  Venice. 

Mer.      What  are  these  ? 
Uncle.   The  tenants. 

Beaumont  axd  Fletcher  :   Wit  without  Money. 

It  was  just  two  years  from  tlie  night  in  which  Alice  had 
been  torn  from  the  cottage,  and  at  that  time  Maltravers  was 
wandering  amongst  the  ruins  of  ancient  Egypt,  when,  upon 
the  very  lawn  where  Alice  and  her  lover  had  so  often  loitered 
hand  in  hand,  a  gay  party  of  children  and  young  people  were 
assembled.  The  cottage  had  been  purchased  by  an  opulent 
and  retired  manufacturer.  He  had  raised  the  low  thatched 
roof  another  story  high,  and  blue  slate  had  replaced  the 
thatch ;  and  the  pretty  verandas  overgrown  with  creepers  had 
been  taken  down,  because  Mrs.  Hobbs  thought  they  gave  the 
rooms  a  dull  look;  and  the  little  rustic  doorway  had  been  re- 
placed by  four  Ionic  pillars  in  stucco;  and  a  new  dining- 
room,  twenty-two  feet  by  eighteen,  had  been  built  out  at  one 
wing,  and  a  new  drawing-room  had  been  built  over  the  new 
dining-room.  And  the  poor  little  cottage  looked  quite  grand 
and  villa-like.  The  fountain  had  been  taken  away,  because 
it  made  the  house  damp;  and  there  was  such  a  broad  carriage- 
drive  from  the  gate  to  the  house!  The  gate  was  no  longer  the 
modest  green  wooden  gate,  ever  ajar  with  its  easy  latch,  but 
a  tall,  cast-iron,  well-locked  gate,  between  two  pillars  to 
match  the  porch.  And  on  one  of  the  gates  was  a  brass-plate, 
on  which  was  graven,  "Hobbs  Lodge.  Ring  the  bell."  The 
lesser  Hobbses  and  the  bigger  Hobbses  were  all  on  the  lawn, 
—  many  of  them  fresh  from  school ;  for  it  was  the  half-holi- 
day of  a  Saturday  afternoon.     There  was  mirth  and  noise  and 

10 


146  ERXEST   MALTRAVERS. 

shouting  and  whooping,  and  the  respectable  old  couple  looked 
calmly  on,  Hobbs  the  father  smoking  his  pipe  (alas,  it  was 
not  the  dear  meerschaum !) ;  Hobbs  the  mother  talking  to  her 
eldest  daughter  (a  fine  young  woman,  three  months  married, 
for  love,  to  a  poor  man)  upon  the  proper  number  of  days  that 
a  leg  of  mutton  (weight  ten  pounds)  should  be  made  to  last. 

"Always,  my  dear,  have  large  joints,  —  they  are  much  the 
most  saving.  Let  me  see —  What  a  noise  the  boys  do 
make!     No,  my  love,  the  ball 's  not  here." 

"Mamma,  it  is  under  your  petticoats." 

"  La,  child,  how  naughty  you  are !  " 

"Holla,  you  sir!  it's  my  turn  to  go  in  now.  Biddy,  wait! 
Girls  have  no  innings;  girls  only  fag  out." 

"Bob,  you  cheat." 

"Pa,  Ned  says  I  cheat." 

"Very  likely,  my  dear;  you  are  to  be  a  lawyer." 

"  Where  was  I,  my  dear?  "  resumed  Mrs  Hobbs,  resettling 
herself  and  readjusting  the  invaded  petticoats.  "Oh,  about 
the  leg  of  mutton.  Yes,  large  joints  are  the  best.  The  second 
day  a  nice  hash,  with  dumplings ;  the  third,  broil  the  bone, 
—  your  husband  is  sure  to  like  broiled  bones, —  and  then  keep 
the  scraps  for  Saturday's  pie.  You  know,  my  dear,  your 
father  and  I  were  worse  off  than  you  when  we  began;  but 
now  we  have  everything  that  is  handsome  about  us, —  nothing 
like  management.  Saturday  pies  are  very  nice  things,  and 
then  you  start  clear  with  your  joint  on  Sunday.  A  good  wife 
like  you  should  never  neglect  the  Saturday's  pie!  " 

"Yes,"  said  the  bride,  mournfully;  "but  Mr.  Tiddy  does 
not  like  pies." 

"Not  like  pies!  That 's  very  odd, —  Mr.  Hobbs  likes  pies. 
Perhaps  you  don't  have  the  crust  made  thick  eno'.  How- 
somever,  you  can  make  it  up  to  him  with  a  pudding.  A  wife 
should  always  study  her  husband's  tastes:  what  is  a  man's 
home  without  love?  Still,  a  husband  ought  not  to  be  aggra- 
vating, and  dislike  pie  on  a  Saturday!  " 

"Holla!     I  say,  Ma,  do  you  see  that  'ere  gypsy?    I  shall 
go  and  have  my  fortune  told." 
"  And  I,  and  I !  " 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  147 

"Lor',  if  there  be  n't  a  tramper!  "  cried  Mr.  Hobbs,  rising 
indignantly.     "What  can  the  parish  be  about? " 

The  object  of  these  latter  remarks,  filial  and  paternal,  was 
a  young  woman  in  a  worn,  threadbare  cloak,  with  her  face 
pressed  to  the  open-work  of  the  gate,  and  looking  wistfully 
—  oh,  how  wistfully!  —  within.  The  children  eagerly  ran  up 
to  her;  but  they  involuntarily  slackened  their  steps  when 
they  drew  near,  for  she  was  evidently  not  what  they  had 
taken  her  for.  No  gypsy  hues  darkened  the  pale,  thin,  deli- 
cate cheek;  no  gypsy  leer  lurked  in  those  large,  blue,  and 
streaming  eyes ;  no  gypsy  effrontery  bronzed  that  candid  and 
childish  brow.  As  she  thus  pressed  her  countenance  with 
convulsive  eagerness  against  the  cold  bars,  the  young  people 
caught  the  contagion  of  inexpressible  and  half-fearful  sad- 
ness; they  approached  almost  respectfully.  "Do  you  want 
anything  here?"  said  the  eldest  and  boldest  of  the  boys. 

"  I  —  I  —     Surely  this  is  Dale  Cottage?  " 

"  It  was  Dale  Cottage,  it  is  Hobbs  Lodge  now.  Can't  you 
read?"  said  the  heir  of  the  Hobbs's  honours,  losing,  in  con- 
tempt at  the  girl's  ignorance,  his  first  impression  of  sympathy. 

"  And  —  and  —  Mr.  Butler,  is  he  gone  too  ?  " 

Poor  child!  she  spoke  as  if  the  cottage  was  gone,  not  im- 
proved; the  Ionic  portico  had  no  charm  for  her! 

"Butler!  No  such  person  lives  here.  Pa,  do  you  know 
where  Mr.  Butler  lives?" 

Pa  was  now  moving  up  to  the  place  of  conference  the  slow 
artillery  of  his  fair  round  belly  and  portly  calves.  "Butler, 
no;  I  know  nothing  of  such  a  name.  No  Mr.  Butler  lives 
here.     Go  along  with  you, —  ain't  you  ashamed  to  beg?" 

"No  Mr.  Butler!"  said  the  girl,  gasping  for  breath,  and 
clinging  to  the  gate  for  support.     "Are  you  sure,  sir?" 

"Sure,  yes!     What  do  you  want  with  him?" 

"Oh,  Papa,  she  looks  faint!"  said  one  of  the  girls,  depre- 
catingly.  "Do  let  her  have  something  to  eat, —  I'm  sure 
she  's  hungry." 

Mr.  Hobbs  looked  angry;  he  had  often  been  taken  in,  and 
no  rich  man  likes  beggars.  Generally  speaking,  the  rich  man 
is  in  the  right.     But  then  Mr.  Hobbs  turned  to  the  suspected 


148  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

tramper's  sorrowful  face,  and  then  to  his  fair,  pretty  child : 
and  his  good  angel  whispered  something  to  Mr.  Hobbs's 
heart,  and  he  said,  after  a  pause:  "Heaven  forbid  that  we 
should  not  feel  for  a  poor  fellow -creature  not  so  well  to  do  as 
ourselves.     Come  in,  my  lass,  and  have  a  morsel  to  eat." 

The  girl  did  not  seem  to  hear  him,  and  he  repeated  the  in- 
vitation, approaching  to  unlock  the  gate. 

"Xo,  sir,"  said  she,  then;  "no,  I  thank  you.  I  could  not 
come  in  now.  I  could  not  eat  here.  But  tell  me,  sir,  I  im- 
plore you,  can  you  not  even  guess  where  I  may  find  Mr. 
Butler?" 

"Butler!  "  said  Mrs.  Hobbs,  whom  curiosity  had  now  drawn 
to  the  spot.  "  I  remember  that  was  the  name  of  the  gentle- 
man who  hired  the  place,  and  was  robbed." 

"Bobbed!"  said  Mr.  Hobbs,  falling  back  and  re-locking 
the  gate;  "and  the  new  tea-pot  just  come  home,"  he  muttered 
inly.  "Come,  be  off,  child,  be  off;  we  know  nothing  of  your 
Mr.  Butlers." 

The  young  woman  looked  wildly  in  his  face,  cast  a  hurried 
glance  over  the  altered  spot,  and  then,  with  a  kind  of  shiver, 
as  if  the  wind  had  smitten  her  delicate  form  too  rudely,  she 
drew  her  cloak  more  closely  round  her  shoulders,  and  without 
saying  another  word,  moved  away.  The  party  looked  after 
her  as,  with  trembling  steps,  she  passed  down  the  road,  and 
all  felt  that  pang  of  shame  which  is  common  to  the  human 
heart  at  the  sight  of  a  distress  it  has  not  sought  to  soothe. 
But  this  feeling  vanished  at  once  from  the  breast  of  Mrs. 
and  Mr.  Hobbs  when  they  saw  the  girl  stop  where  a  turn 
of  the  road  brought  the  gate  before  her  eyes,  and  for  the  first 
time  they  perceived,  what  the  worn  cloak  had  hitherto  con- 
cealed, that  the  poor  young  thing  bore  an  infant  in  her  arms. 
She  halted,  she  gazed  fondly  back.  Even  at  that  distance  the 
despair  of  her  eyes  was  visible;  and  then,  as  she  pressed  her 
lips  to  the  infant's  brow,  they  heard  a  convulsive  sob,  they 
saw" her  turn  away,  and  she  was  gone! 

"Well,  I  declare!  "  said  Mrs.  Hobbs. 

"News  for  the  parish,"  said  Mr.  Hobbs;  "and  she  so  young 
too !     What  a  shame !  " 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  149 

"The  girls  about  here  are  very  bad,  nowadays,  Jenny,"  said 
the  mother  to  the  bride. 

"I  see  now  why  she  wanted   Mr.  Butler,"  quoth  Hobbs, 
with  a  knowing  wink, —  "the  slut  has  come  to  swear!  " 

And  it  was  for  this  that  Alice  had  supported  her  strength, 
her  courage,  during  the  sharp  pangs  of  childbirth,  during  a 
severe  and  crushing  illness,  which  for  months  after  her  con- 
linement  had  stretched  her  upon  a  peasant's  bed  (the  object 
of  the  rude  but  kindly  charity  of  an  Irish  shealing) ;  for  this, 
day  after  day,  she  had  whispered  to  herself,  "  I  shall  get  well, 
and  I  will  beg  my  way  to  the  cottage,  and  find  him  there 
still,  and  put  my  little  one  into  his  arms,   and  all  will  be 
bright  again;"   for  this,  as  soon  as  she  could  walk  without 
aid,  had  she  set  out  on  foot  from  the  distant  land;  for  this, 
almost  with  a  dog's  instinct  (for  she  knew  not  what  way  to 
turn,  what  county  the  cottage  was  placed  in, —  she  only  knew 
the  name  of  the  neighbouring  town,  and  that,  populous  as  it 
was,  sounded  strange  to  the  ears  of  those  she  asked;  and  she 
had  often  and  often  been  directed  wrong), —  for  this,  I  say, 
almost  with  a  dog's  faithful   instinct,  had  she,   in  cold  and 
heat,  in  hunger  and  in  thirst,    tracked  to  her  old  master's 
home  her  desolate  and  lonely  way!     And  thrice  had  she  over- 
fatigued  herself,  and  thrice  again  been  indebted  to  humble 
pity  for  a  bed  whereon  to  lay  a  feverish  and  broken  frame. 
And  once,  too,  her  baby  —  her  darling,  her  life  of  life  —  had 
been  ill,  had  been  near  unto  death,  and  she  could  not  stir  till 
the  infant  (it  was  a  girl)  was  well  again,  and  could  smile  in 
her  face  and  crow.     And  thus  many,  many  months  had  elapsed 
since  the  day  she  set  out  on  her  pilgrimage,  to  that  on  which 
she  found  its  goal.     But  never,  save  when  the  child  was  ill, 
had  she  desponded  or  abated  heart  and  hope.     She  should  see 
him  again,  and  he  would  kiss  her  child.     And  now  —    No,  I 
cannot  paint  the  might  of  that  stunning  blow !    She  knew  not, 
she  dreamed   not,    of  the  kind  precautions   ^Maltravers  had 
taken ;  and  he  had  not  sufficiently  calculated  on  her  thorough 
ignorance  of  the  world.     How  could  she  divine  that  the  mag- 
istrate, not  a  mile  distant  from  her,  could  have  told  her  all 
she  sought  to  know?     Could  she  but  have  met  the  gardener, 


150  ERNEST  MALTR AVERS. 

or  the  old  -woman-servant,  all  would  have  been  well !  These 
last,  indeed,  she  had  the  forethought  to  ask  for;  but  the 
woman  was  dead,  and  the  gardener  had  taken  a  strange  ser- 
vice in  some  distant  county.  And  so  died  her  last  gleam  of 
hope.  If  one  person  who  remembered  the  search  of  Mal- 
travers  had  but  met  and  recognized  her!  But  she  had  been 
seen  by  so  few,  and  now  the  bright,  fresh  girl  was  so  sadly 
altered!  Her  race  was  not  yet  run,  and  many  a  sharp  wind 
upon  the  mournful  seas  had  the  bark  to  brave  before  its  haven 
was  found  at  last. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

Patience  and  sorrow  strove 
Which  should  express  her  goodliest.  —  Shakspeare. 

Je  la  plains,  je  la  blame,  et  je  suis  son  appui.i  — ■  Voltaire. 

And  now  Alice  felt  that  she  was  on  the  wide  world  alone, 
with  her  child,  no  longer  to  be  protected,  but  to  protect;  and 
after  the  first  few  days  of  agony,  a  new  spirit,  not  indeed  of 
hope,  but  of  endurance,  passed  within  her.  Her  solitary  wan- 
derings, with  God  her  only  guide,  had  tended  greatly  to  ele- 
vate and  confirm  her  character.  She  felt  a  strong  reliance  on 
His  mysterious  mercy;  she  felt,  too,  the  responsibility  of  a 
mother.  Thrown  for  so  many  months  upon  her  own  resources, 
even  for  the  bread  of  life,  her  intellect  was  unconsciously 
sharpened,  and  a  habit  of  patient  fortitude  had  strengthened 
a  nature  originally  clinging  and  femininely  soft.  She  resolved 
to  pass  into  some  other  county,  for  she  could  neither  bear  the 
thoughts  that  haunted  the  neighbourhood  around,  nor  think, 
without  a  loathing  horror,  of  the  possibility  of  her  father's 
return.  Accordingly,  one  day  she  renewed  her  wanderings, 
and  after  a  week's  travel  arrived  at  a  small  village.  Charity 
is   so  common  in  England,   it  so  spontaneously  springs  up 

1  "  I  pity  her,  I  blame  her,  and  am  her  snpport." 


1 


ERXEST  MALTRAVERS.  151 

everywhere,  like  the  good  seed  by  the  roadside,  that  she  had 
rarely  wanted  the  bare  necessaries  of  existence.  And  her 
humble  manner,  and  sweet,  well-tuned  voice,  so  free  from  the 
professional  whine  of  mendicancy,  had  usually  its  charm  for 
the  sternest.  So  she  generally  obtained  enough  to  buy  bread 
and  a  night's  lodging;  and  if  sometimes  she  failed,  she  could 
bear  hunger,  and  was  not  afraid  of  creeping  into  some  shed, 
or,  when  by  the  sea-shore,  even  into  some  sheltering  cavern. 
Her  child  throve  too,  for  God  tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn 
lamb!  But  now,  so  far  as  physical  privation  went  the  worst 
was  over. 

It  so  happened  that  as  Alice  was  drawing  herself  wearily 
along  to  the  entrance  of  the  village  which  was  to  bound  her 
day's  journey  she  was  met  by  a  lady,  past  middle  age,  in 
whose  countenance  compassion  was  so  visible  that  Alice  would 
not  beg;  for  she  had  a  strange  delicacy,  or  pride,  or  what- 
ever it  may  be  called,  and  rather  begged  of  the  stern  than  of 
those  who  looked  kindly  at  her, —  she  did  not  like  to  lower 
herself  in  the  eyes  of  the  last. 

The  lady  stopped. 

"My  poor  girl,  where  are  you  going?" 

"Where  God  pleases,  madam,"  said  Alice. 

"Humph!  and  is  that  your  own  child?  —  you  are  almost  a 
child  yourself." 

"It  is  mine,  madam,"  said  Alice,  gazing  fondly  at  the  in- 
fant; "it  is  my  all!" 

The  lady's  voice  faltered.  "Are  you  married?"  she  asked. 

"Married?  Oh,  no,  madam!"  replied  Alice,  innocently, 
yet  without  blushing;  for  she  never  knew  that  she  had  done 
wrong  in  loving  Maltravers. 

The  lady  drew  gently  back,  but  not  in  horror, —  no,  in  still 
deeper  compassion;  for  that  lady  had  true  virtue,  and  she 
knew  that  the  faults  of  her  sex  are  sufficiently  punished  to 
permit  Virtue  to  pity  them  without  a  sin. 

"I  am  sorry  for  it,"  she  said,  however,  with  greater  gravity. 
"Are  you  travelling  to  seek  the  father?" 

"Ah,  madam!  I  shall  never  see  him  again!"  And  Alice 
wept. 


152  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

"What,  he  has  abandoned  you!  — So  young,  so  beautiful!" 
added  the  lady  to  herself. 

"Abandoned  me?  No,  madam;  but  it  is  a  long  tale.  Good 
evening;  I  thank  you  kindly  for  your  pity." 

The  lady's  eyes  ran  over. 

"Stay,"  said  she;  "tell  me  frankly  where  you  are  going, 
and  what  is  your  object." 

"  Alas !  madam,  I  am  going  anywhere,  for  I  have  no  home ; 
but  I  wish  to  live,  and  work  for  my  living,  in  order  that  my 
child  may  not  want  for  anything.  I  wish  I  could  maintain 
myself, —  he  used  to  say  I  could." 

"  He !  Your  language  and  manner  are  not  those  of  a  peas- 
ant.    What  can  you  do?     What  do  you  know?  " 

"  Music  and  work  and  —  and  —  " 

"Music!     This  is  strange!     What  were  your  parents?" 

Alice  shuddered,  and  hid  her  face  with  her  hands. 

The  lady's  interest  was  now  fairly  warmed  in  her  behalf. 

"She  has  sinned,"  said  she  to  herself;  "but  at  that  age, 
how  can  one  be  harsh?  She  must  not  be  thrown  upon  the 
world  to  make  sin  a  habit. —  Follow  me,"  she  said,  after  a 
little  pause,  "and  think  you  have  found  a  friend." 

The  lady  then  turned  from  the  high-road  down  a  green  lane 
which  led  to  a  park  lodge.  This  lodge  she  entered;  and  after 
a  short  conversation  with  the  inmate,  beckoned  to  Alice  to 
join  her. 

"Janet,"  said  Alice's  new  protector  to  a  comely  and  i)leas- 
ant-eyed  woman,  "this  is  the  young  person;  you  will  show 
her  and  the  infant  every  attention.  I  shall  send  down  proper 
clothing  for  her  to-morrow,  and  I  shall  then  have  thought 
what  will  be  best  for  her  future  welfare." 

With  that  the  lady  smiled  benignly  upon  Alice,  whose 
heart  was  too  full  to  speak ;  and  the  door  of  the  cottage  closed 
upon  her,  and  Alice  thought  the  day  had  grown  darker. 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  153 


CHAPTER   V. 

Believe  me,  she  has  won  me  much  to  pity  her. 
Alas !  her  geutle  nature  was  not  made 
To  buffet  with  adversity.  —  Rowe. 

Sober  he  was,  and  grave  from  early  youth, 
Mindful  of  forms,  but  more  intent  on  truth ; 
In  a  light  drab  he  uniformly  dressed. 
And  look  serene  th'  vmruffled  mind  expressed. 

Yet  might  observers  in  his  sparkling  eye 

Some  observation,  some  acuteness,  spv, — 

The  friendly  thought  it  keen,  the  treacherous  deemed  it  sly  ; 

Yet  not  a  crime  could  foe  or  friend  detect. 

His  actions  all  were,  like  his  speech,  correct. 

Chaste,  sober,  solemn,  and  devout  they  named 

Him  who  was  this,  and  not  of  this  ashamed.  —  Ckabbe. 

I  '11  on,  and  sound  this  secret.  —  Beaumont  axd  Fletcher. 

Mrs.  Le.slie,  the  lady  introduced  to  the  reader  in  the  last 
chapter,  was  a  woman  of  the  firmest  intellect  combined  —  no 
unusual  combination  —  with  the  softest  heart.  She  learned 
Alice's  history  with  admiration  and  pity.  The  natural  inno- 
cence and  honesty  of  the  young  mother  spoke  so  eloquently  in 
her  words  and  looks  that  Mrs.  Leslie,  on  hearing  her  tale, 
found  much  less  to  forgive  than  she  had  anticipated.  Still, 
she  deemed  it  necessary  to  enlighten  Alice  as  to  the  crimi- 
nality of  the  connection  she  had  formed.  But  here  Alice  was 
singularly  dull;  she  listened  in  meek  patience  to  Mrs.  Leslie's 
lecture,  but  it  evidently  made  but  slight  impression  on  her. 
She  had  not  yet  seen  enough  of  the  social  state  to  correct  the 
first  impressions  of  the  natural ;  and  all  she  could  say  in  an- 
swer to  Mrs.  Leslie  was :  "  It  may  be  all  very  true,  madam, 
but  I  have  been  so  much  better  since  1  knew  him ! " 

But  though  Alice  took  humbly  any  censure  upon  herself, 
she  would  not  hear  a  svHable  insinuated  against  Maltravers. 


154  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

When,  in  a  very  natural  indignation,  Mrs.  Leslie  denounced 
him  as  a  destroyer  of  innocence, —  for  Mrs.  Leslie  could  not 
learn  all  that  extenuated  his  offence, —  Alice  started  up,  with 
flashing  eyes  and  heaving  heart,  and  would  have  hurried  from 
the  only  shelter  she  had  in  the  wide  world;  she  would  sooner 
have  died,  she  would  sooner  even  have  seen  her  child  die, 
than  have  done  that  idol  of  her  soul,  who  in  her  eyes  stood 
alone  on  some  pinnacle  between  earth  and  heaven,  the  wrong 
of  hearing  him  reviled.  With  difficulty  Mrs.  Leslie  could  re- 
strain, with  still  more  difliculty  could  she  pacify  and  soothe 
her;  and  for  the  girl's  petulance,  which  others  might  have 
deemed  insolent  or  ungrateful,  the  woman-heart  of  Mrs. 
Leslie  loved  her  all  the  better.  The  more  she  saw  of  Alice, 
and  the  more  she  comprehended  her  story  and  her  character, 
the  more  was  she  lost  in  wonder  at  the  romance  of  which  this 
beautiful  child  had  been  the  heroine,  and  the  more  perplexed 
she  was  as  to  Alice's  future  prospects. 

At  length,  however,  when  she  became  acquainted  with 
Alice's  musical  acquirements,  which  were,  indeed,  of  no  com- 
mon order,  a  light  broke  in  upon  her.  Here  was  the  source 
of  her  future  independence.  Maltravers,  it  will  be  remem- 
bered, was  a  musician  of  consummate  skill  as  well  as  taste, 
and  Alice's  natural  talent  for  the  art  had  advanced  her  in  the 
space  of  months  to  a  degree  of  perfection  which  it  cost  others 
—  which  it  had  cost  even  the  quick  Maltravers  —  years  to 
obtain.  But  we  learn  so  rapidly  when  our  teachers  are  those 
we  love;  and  it  may  be  observed  that  the  less  our  knowledge, 
the  less,  perhaps,  our  genius,  in  other  things,  the  more  facile 
are  our  attainments  in  music,  which  is  a  very  jealous  mistress 
of  the  mind.  Mrs.  Leslie  resolved  to  have  her  perfected  in 
this  art,  and  so  enable  her  to  become  a  teacher  to  others.     In 

the  town  of   C ,  about   thirty  miles  from  Mrs.   Leslie's 

house,  though  in  the  same  county,  there  was  no  inconsidera- 
ble circle  of  wealthy  and  intelligent  persons;  for  it  was  a 
cathedral  town,  a.nd  the  resident  clergy  drew  around  them  a 
kind  of  provincial  aristocracy.  Here,  as  in  most  rural  towns 
in  England,  music  was  much  cultivated,  both  among  the 
higher   and   middle   classes.     There   were   amateur  concerts 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  155 

and  glee-clubs  and  subscriptions  for  sacred  music;  and  once 

every  live  years  there  was  the  great  C Festival.     In  this 

town  Mrs.  Leslie  established  Alice;  she  placed  her  under  the 
roof  of  a  ci-devant  music-master,  who,  having  retired  from 
his  profession,  was  no  longer  jealous  of  rivals,  but  who  by 
handsome  terms  was  induced  to  complete  the  education  of 
Alice.  It  was  an  eligible  and  comfortable  abode,  and  the 
music-master  and  his  wife  were  a  good-natured,  easy  old 
couple. 

Three  months  of  resolute  and  unceasing  perseverance,  com- 
bined with  the  singular  ductility  and  native  gifts  of  Alice, 
sufficed  to  render  her  the  most  promising  pupil  the  good  mu- 
sician had  ever  accomplished;  and  in  three  months  more,  in- 
troduced by  Mrs.  Leslie  to  many  of  the  families  in  the  place, 
Alice  was  established  in  a  home  of  her  own ;  and  what  with 
regular  lessons,  and  occasional  assistance  at  musical  parties, 
she  was  fairly  earning  what  her  tutor  reasonably  pronounced 
to  be  "a  very  genteel  independence." 

Now,  in  these  arrangements  (for  we  must  here  go  back  a 
little)  there  had  been  one  gigantic  difficulty,  of  conscience  in 
one  party,  of  feeling  in  another,  to  surmount.  IVIrs.  Leslie 
saw  at  once  that  unless  Alice's  misfortune  was  concealed,  all 
the  virtues  and  all  the  talents  in  the  Avorld  could  not  enable 
her  to  retrace  the  one  false  step.  Mrs.  Leslie  was  a  woman 
of  habitual  truth  and  strict  rectitude,  and  she  was  sorely  per- 
plexed between  the  propriety  of  candour  and  its  cruelty.  She 
felt  unequal  to  take  the  responsibility  of  action  on  herself; 
and  after  much  meditation  she  resolved  to  confide  her  scru- 
l»les  to  one  who,  of  all  whom  she  knew,  possessed  the  highest 
character  for  moral  worth  and  religious  sanctity.  This  gen- 
tleman, lately  a  widower,  lived  at  the  outskirts  of  the  town 
selected  for  Alice's  future  residence,  and  at  that  time  hap- 
pened to  be  on  a  visit  in  Mrs.  Leslie's  neighbourhood.  He 
was  an  opulent  man,  a  banker;  he  had  once  represented  the 
town  in  parliament,  and  retiring,  from  disinclination  to  the 
late  hours  and  onerous  fatigues  even  of  an  unreformed  House 
of  Commons,  he  still  possessed  an  influence  to  return  one,  if 
not  both,  of  the  members  for  the  city  of  C .     And  that  in- 


156  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

fluence  was  always  exerted  so  as  best  to  secure  his  own  inter- 
est with  the  powers  that  be,  and  advance  certain  objects  of 
ambition  (for  he  was  both  an  ostentatious  and  ambitious  man 
in  his  own  way)  which  he  felt  he  might  more  easily  obtain  by 
proxy  than  by  his  own  votes  and  voice  in  parliament, —  an 
atmosphere  in  which  his  light  did  not  shine.     And  it  was 
with  a  wonderful  address  that  the  banker  contrived  at  once  to 
support  the  Government,  and  yet,  by  the  frequent  expression 
of  liberal  opinions,  to  conciliate  the  Whigs  and  the  Dissen- 
ters of  his  neighbourhood.     Parties,  political  and  sectarian, 
were  not  then  so  irreconcilable  as  they  are  now.      In  the 
whole  county  there  was  no  one  so  respected  as  this  eminent 
person;    and  yet  he  possessed  no  shining  talents,  though  a 
laborious  and  energetic  man  of  business.     It  was  solely  and 
wholly  the  force  of  moral  character  which  gave  him  his  posi- 
tion in  society.     He  felt  this;  he  was  sensitively  proud  of  it; 
he  was  painfully  anxious  not  to  lose  an  atom  of  a  distinction 
that  required  to  be  vigilantly  secured.      He  was  a  very  re- 
markable, yet  not,  perhaps  (could  we  penetrate  all  hearts),  a 
very  tmcommon,  character,  this  banker.     He  had  risen  from, 
comparatively  speaking,  a  low  origin  and  humble  fortunes, 
and  entirely  by  the  scrupulous  and  sedate  propriety  of  his  out- 
ward conduct.     With  such  a  propriety  he  therefore  insepara- 
bly connected  every  notion  of  worldly  prosperity  and  honour. 
Thus,  though  far  from  a  bad  man,  he  was  forced  into  being 
something  of  a  hypocrite.     Every  year  he  had  groAvn  more 
starched  and  more  saintly.     He  was  conscience-keei^er  to  the 
whole  town ;   and  it  is  astonishing  how  many  persons  hardly 
dared  to  make  a  will  or  subscribe  to  a  charity  without  his 
advice.     As  he  was  a  shrewd  man  of  this  world,  as  well  as  an 
accredited  guide  to  the  next,  his  advice  was  precisely  of  a 
nature  to  reconcile  the  Conscience  and  the  Interest;  and  he 
was  a  kind  of  negotiator  in  the  reciprocal  diplomacy  of  earth 
and  heaven.     But  our  banker  was  really  a  charitable  man  and 
a  benevolent  man  and  a  sincere  believer.     How,  then,  was  he 
a  hypocrite?     Simply  because  he  professed  to  be  far  more 
charitable,  more  benevolent,  and  more  pious  than  he  really 
was.     His  reputation  had  now  arrived  to  that  degree  of  im- 


ernp:st  maltravers.  157 

maculate  polish  that  the  smallest  breath,  which  would  not 
have  tarnished  the  character  of  another  man,  would  have  fixed 
an  indelible  stain  upon  his.  As  he  affected  to  be  more  strict 
than  the  Churchman,  and  was  a  great  oracle  with  all  who 
regarded  Churchmen  as  lukewarm,  so  his  conduct  was  nar- 
rowly watched  by  all  the  clergy  of  the  orthodox  cathedral, — 
good  men,  doubtless,  but  not  affecting  to  be  saints,  who  were 
jealous  at  being  so  luminously  outshone  by  a  layman  and  an 
authority  of  the  sectarians.  On  the  other  hand,  the  intense 
homage  and  almost  worship  he  received  from  his  followers 
kept  his  goodness  upon  a  stretch,  if  not  beyond  all  human 
power,  certainly  beyond  his  own.  For  "  admiration, "  as  it  is 
well  said  somewhere,  "  is  a  kind  of  superstition  which  ex- 
pects miracles."  From  nature  this  gentleman  had  received 
an  inordinate  share  of  animal  propensities;  he  had  strong 
passions,  he  was  by  temperament  a  sensualist.  He  loved 
good  eating  and  good  wine;  he  loved  women.  The  two  former 
blessings  of  the  carnal  life  are  not  incompatable  with  canoni- 
zation; but  Saint  Anthony  has  shown  that  women,  however 
angelic,  are  not  precisely  that  order  of  angels  that  saints 
may  safely  commune  with.  If,  therefore,  he  ever  yielded  to 
temptations  of  a  sexual  nature,  it  was  with  profound  secrecy 
and  caution;  nor  did  his  right  hand  know  what  his  left  hand 
did. 

This  gentleman  had  married  a  woman  much  older  than  him- 
self; but  her  fortune  had  been  one  of  the  necessary  stepping- 
stones  in  his  career.  His  exemplary  conduct  towards  this  lady, 
ugly  as  well  as  old,  had  done  much  towards  increasing  the 
odour  of  his  sanctity.  She  died  of  an  ague,  and  the  widower 
did  not  shock  probabilities  by  affecting  too  severe  a  grief. 

"The  Lord's  will  be  done!"  said  he.  "She  was  a  good 
woman ;  but  we  should  not  set  our  affections  too  much  upon 
His  perishable  creatures!  " 

This  was  all  he  was  ever  heard  to  say  on  the  matter.  He 
took  an  elderly  gentlewoman,  distantly  related  to  him,  to 
manage  his  house  and  sit  at  the  head  of  the  table;  and  it  was 
thought  not  impossible,  though  the  widower  was  past  fifty, 
that  he  might  marry  again. 


158  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

Such  was  the  gentleman  called  in  by  Mrs.  Leslie,  who,  of 
the  same  religious  opinions,  had  long  known  and  revered  him, 
to  decide  the  affairs  of  Alice  and  of  Conscience. 

As  this  man  exercised  no  slight  or  fugitive  influence  over 
Alice  Darvil's  destinies,  his  counsels  on  the  point  in  discus- 
sion ought  to  be  fairly  related. 

"And  now,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  concluding  the  history, 
"you  will  perceive,  my  dear  sir,  that  this  poor  young  creature 
has  been  less  culpable  than  she  appears.  From  the  extra- 
ordinary proficiency  she  has  made  in  music  in  a  time  that 
by  her  own  account  seems  incredibly  short,  I  should  suspect 
her  unprincipled  betrayer  must  have  been  ao  artist,  —  a  pro- 
fessional man.  It  is  just  possible  that  they  may  meet  again 
and  (as  the  ranks  between  them  cannot  be  so  very  dispropor- 
tionate) that  he  may  marry  her.  I  am  sure  that  he  could  not 
do  a  better  or  a  wiser  thing,  for  she  loves  him  too  fondly, 
despite  her  wrongs.  Under  these  circumstances  would  it  be 
a  —  a  —  a  culpable  disguise  of  truth  to  represent  her  as  a  mar- 
ried woman,  separated  from  her  husband,  and  give  her  the 
name  of  her  seducer?  Without  such  a  precaution  you  will 
see,  sir,  that  all  hope  of  settling  her  reputably  in  life,  all 
chance  of  procuring  her  any  creditable  independence,  is  out  of 
the  question.  Such  is  my  dilemma.  What  is  your  advice  ? 
Palatable  or  not,  I  shall  abide  by  it." 

The  banker's  grave  and  saturnine  countenance  exhibited  a 
slight  degree  of  embarrassment  at  the  case  submitted  to  him. 
He  began  brushing  away,  with  the  cuff  of  his  black  coat,  some 
atoms  of  dust  that  had  settled  on  his  drab  small-clothes ;  and 
after  a  slight  pause  he  replied:  "Why,  really,  dear  madam, 
the  question  is  one  of  much  delicacy,  —  I  doubt  if  men  could 
be  good  judges  upon  it;  your  sex's  tact  and  instinct  on  these 
matters  are  better,  much  better,  than  our  sagacity.  There  is 
much  in  the  dictates  of  your  own  heart;  for  to  those  who  are 
in  the  grace  of  the  Lord,  He  vouchsafes  to  communicate  His 
pleasure  by  spiritual  hints  and  inward  suggestions !  " 

"If  so,  my  dear  sir,  the  matter  is  decided;  for  my  heart 
whispers  me  that  this  slight  deviation  from  truth  would  be  a 
less  culpable  offence  than  turning  so  young  and,  I  had  almost 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  159 

said,  so  innocent  a  creature  adrift  upon  the  world.  I  may 
take  your  opinion  as  my  sanction?" 

"Why,  really,  I  can  scarcely  say  so  much  as  that,"  said  the 
banker,  with  a  slight  smile.  "  A  deviation  from  truth  cannot 
be  incurred  without  some  forfeiture  of  strict  duty." 

"Not  in  any  case?  Alas,  I  was  afraid  so!"  said  Mrs. 
Leslie,  despondingly. 

"In  any  case?  Oh,  there  may  be  cases!  But  had  I  not 
better  see  the  young  woman,  and  ascertain  that  your  benevo- 
lent heart  has  not  deceived  you?  " 

"I  wish  you  would,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie;  "she  is  now  in  the 
house.     I  will  ring  for  her." 

"Should  we  not  be  alone?  " 

"Certainly;  I  will  leave  you  together." 

Alice  was  sent  for,  and  appeared. 

"This  pious  gentleman,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  "will  confer 
with  you  for  a  few  moments,  my  child.  Do  not  be  afraid;  he 
is  the  best  of  men."  With  these  words  of  encouragement  the 
good  lady  vanished,  and  Alice  saw  before  her  a  tall,  dark 
man,  with  a  head  bald  in  front,  yet  larger  behind  than  before, 
with  spectacles  upon  a  pair  of  shrewd,  penetrating  eyes,  and 
an  outline  of  countenance  that  showed  he  must  have  been 
handsome  in  earlier  manhood. 

"My  young  friend,"  said  the  banker,  seating  himself,  after 
a  deliberate  survey  of  the  fair  countenance  that  blushed  be- 
neath his  gaze,  "Mrs.  Leslie  and  myself  have  been  conferring 
upon  your  temporal  welfare.  You  have  been  unfortunate, 
my  child." 

"Ah,  yes!" 

"  Well,  wel  1,  you  are  very  young ;  we  must  not  be  too  severe 
upon  youth.     You  will  never  do  so  again?  " 

"Do  what,  please  you,  sir?  " 

"What!  Humph!  I  mean  that  you  will  be  more  rigid, 
more  circumspect.  Men  are  deceitful ;  you  must  be  on  your 
guard  against  them.  You  are  handsome,  child,  very  hand- 
some,—  more  's  the  pity."  And  the  banker  took  Alice's  hand 
and  pressed  it  with  great  unction.  Alice  looked  at  him 
gravely,  and  drew  her  hand  away  instinctively. 


160  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

The  banker  lowered  Ms  spectacles  and  gazed  at  her  without 
their  aid;  his  eyes  were  still  fine  and  expressive.  "What  is 
your  name?"   he  asked. 

"Alice  —  Alice  Darvil,  sir." 

"Well,  Alice,  we  have  been  considering  what  is  best  for 
you.  You  wish  to  earn  your  own  livelihood,  and  perhaps 
marry  some  honest  man  hereafter." 

"Marry,  sir?  Never!"  said  Alice,  with  great  earnestness, 
her  eyes  filling  with  tears. 

"And  why?" 

"Because  I  shall  never  see  him  on  earth,  and  they  do  not 
marry  in  heaven,  sir," 

The  banker  was  moved,  for  he  was  not  worse  than  his 
neighbours,  though  trying  to  make  them  believe  he  was  so 
much  better. 

"Well,  time  enough  to  talk  of  that;  but  in  the  meanwhile 
you  would  support  yourself?  " 

"Yes,  sir.  His  child  ought  to  be  a  burden  to  none, —  nor 
I  either.  I  once  wished  to  die ;  but  then  who  would  love  my 
little  one?     Now  I  wish  to  live." 

"But  what  mode  of  livelihood  would  you  prefer?  Would 
you  go  into  a  family  in  some  capacity?  Not  that  of  a  ser- 
vant,—  you  are  too  delicate  for  that." 

"Oh,  no,  no!" 

"But,  again,  why?"  asked  the  banker,  soothingly,  yet 
surprised. 

"Because,"  said  Alice,  almost  solemnly,  "there  are  some 
hours  when  I  feel  I  must  be  alone,  I  sometimes  think  I  am 
not  all  right  here"  and  she  touched  her  forehead.  "They 
called  me  an  idiot  before  I  knew  him  !  No,  I  could  not  live 
with  others,  for  I  can  only  cry  when  nobody  but  my  child  is 
with  me." 

This  was  said  with  such  unconscious,  and  therefore  with 
such  pathetic,  simplicity  that  the  banker  was  sensibly  atfected. 
He  rose,  stirred  the  fire,  resettled  himself,  and  after  a  pause 
said  emphatically:  "Alice,  I  will  be  your  friend.  Let  me  be- 
lieve you  will  deserve  it." 

Alice  bent  her  graceful  head ;  and  seeing  that  he  had  sunk 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  161 

into  an   abstracted   silence,   she   thought  it  time  for  her   to 
withdraw. 

"She  is  indeed  beautiful,"  said  the  banker,  almost  aloud, 
when  he  was  alone;  "and  the  old  lady  is  right,  — she  is  as 
innocent  as  if  she  had  not  fallen.  I  wonder  —  "  Here  he 
stopped  short,  and  walked  to  the  glass  over  the  mantelpiece, 
where  he  was  still  gazing  on  his  own  features  when  Mrs. 
Leslie  returned. 

"Well,  sir?"  said  she,  a  little  surprised  at  this  seeming 
vanity  in  so  pious  a  man. 

The  banker  started.  "Madam,  I  honour  your  penetration 
as  much  as  your  charity;  I  think  that  there  is  so  much  to  be 
feared  in  letting  all  the  world  know  this  young  female's  past 
error  that,  though  I  dare  not  advise,  I  cannot  blame,  your 
concealment  of  it." 

"But,  sir,  your  words  have  sunk  deep  into  my  thoughts; 
you  said  every  deviation  from  truth  was  a  forfeiture  of 
duty." 

"Certainly;  but  there  are  some  exceptions.  The  world  is 
a  bad  world,  —  we  are  born  in  sin,  and  the  children  of  wrath. 
We  do  not  tell  infants  all  the  truth  when  they  ask  us  ques- 
tions, the  proper  answers  of  which  would  mislead,  not  en- 
lighten, them.  In  some  things  the  whole  world  are  infants. 
The  very  science  of  government  is  the  science  of  concealing 
truth;  so  is  the  system  of  trade.  We  could  not  blame  the 
tradesman  for  not  telling  the  public  that  if  all  his  debts  were 
called  in  he  would  be  a  bankrupt." 

"And  he  may  marry  her,  after  all,  this  Mr.  Butler." 

"Heaven  forbid, —  the  villain!  Well,  madam,  T  will  see 
to  this  poor  young  thing;  she  shall  not  want  a  guide." 

"Heaven  reward  you!  How  wicked  some  people  are  to  call 
you  severe !  " 

"  I  can  bear  that  blame  with  a  meek  temper,  madam. 
Good-day. " 

"  Good-day.  You  will  remember  how  strictly  confidential 
has  been  our  conversation." 

"Not  a  breath  shall  transpire.  I  will  send  you  some  tracts 
to-morrow,  — so  comforting.     Heaven  bless  you!  " 

11 


162  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

This  difficulty  smoothed,  Mrs.  Leslie,  to  her  astonishment, 
found  that  she  had  another  to  contend  with  in  Alice  herself. 
For,  first,  Alice  conceived  that  to  change  her  name  and  keep 
her  secret  was  to  confess  that  she  ought  to  be  ashamed  rather 
than  proud  of  her  love  to  Ernest,  and  she  thought  that  so 
ungrateful  to  him ;  and,  secondly,  to  take  his  name,  to  pass 
for  his  wife —  what  presumption!  He  would  certainly  have 
a  right  to  be  offended!  At  these  scruples  Mrs.  Leslie  well- 
nigh  lost  all  patience;  and  the  banker,  to  his  own  surprise, 
was  again  called  in.  We  have  said  that  he  was  an  experi- 
enced and  skilful  adviser, —  which  implies  the  faculty  of  per- 
suasion. He  soon  saw  the  handle  by  which  Alice's  obstinacy 
might  always  be  moved, —  her  little  girl's  welfare.  He  put 
this  so  forcibly  before  her  eyes;  he  represented  the  child's 
future  fate  as  resting  so  much,  not  only  on  her  own  good 
conduct,  but  on  her  outward  respectability,  that  he  prevailed 
upon  her  at  last;  and  perhaps  one  argument  that  he  inciden- 
tally used  had  as  much  effect  on  her  as  the  rest.  "This  Mr. 
Butler,  if  yet  in  England,  may  pass  through  our  town,  may 
visit  amongst  us,  may  hear  you  spoken  of  by  a  name  similar 
to  his  own,  and  curiosity  would  thus  induce  him  to  seek  you. 
Take  his  name,  and  you  will  always  bear  an  honourable  index 
to  your  mutual  discovery  and  recognition.  Besides,  when 
you  are  respectable,  honoured,  and  earning  an  independence, 
he  may  not  be  too  proud  to  marry  you.  But  take  your  own 
name,  avow  your  own  history,  and  not  only  will  your  child 
be  an  outcast,  yourself  a  beggar,  or,  at  best,  a  menial  depend- 
ent, but  you  lose  every  hope  of  recovering  the  object  of  your 
too-devoted  attachment. " 

Thus  Alice  was  convinced.  From  that  time  she  became 
close  and  reserved  in  her  communications.  Mrs.  Leslie  had 
wisely  selected  a  town  sufficiently  remote  from  her  own  abode 
to  preclude  any  revelations  of  her  domestics;  and  as  Mrs. 
Butler,  Alice  attracted  universal  sympathy  and  respect  from 
the  exercise  of  her  talents,  the  modest  sweetness  of  her  man- 
ners, the  unblemished  propriety  of  her  conduct.  Somehow  or 
other,  no  sooner  did  she  learn  the  philosophy  of  concealment 
than  she  made  a  great  leap  in  knowledge  of  the  world.     And 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  1G3 

though  flattered  and  courted  by  the  young  loungers  of  C , 


she  steered  her  course  with  so  much  address  that  she  Avas 
never  persecuted;  for  there  are  few  men  in  the  world  who 
make  advances  where  there  is  no  encouragement. 

The  banker  observed  her  conduct  with  silent  vigilance.  He 
met  her  often,  he  visited  her  often.  He  was  intimate  at 
houses  where  she  attended  to  teach  or  perform.  He  lent  her 
good  books,  he  advised  her,  he  preached  to  her.  Alice  began 
to  look  up  to  him,  to  like  him,  to  consider  him  as  a  village 
girl  in  Catholic  countries  may  consider  a  benevolent  and  kindly 
priest.  And  he  —  what  was  his  object?  At  that  time  it  is 
impossible  to  guess;  he  became  thoughtful  and  abstracted. 

One  day  an  old  maid  and  an  old  clergyman  met  in  the  High 
Street  of  C . 

"  And  how  do  you  do,  ma'am?  "  said  the  clergyman.  "  How 
is  the  rheumatism?  " 

"Better,  thank  you,  sir.     Any  news?" 

The  clergyman  smiled,  and  something  hovered  on  his  lips, 
which  he  suppressed. 

"Were  you,"  the  old  maid  resumed,  "at  Mrs.  Macnab's  last 
night?     Charming  music!  " 

"Charming!  How  pretty  that  Mrs.  Butler  is!  and  how 
humble !  Knows  her  station,  —  so  unlike  professional 
people." 

"Yes,  indeed!    What  attention  a  certain  banker  paid  her!  " 

"He!  he!  he!  yes;  he  is  very  fatherly  —  very!  " 

"Perhaps  he  will  marry  again;  he  is  always  talking  of  the 
holy  state  of  matrimony,  A  holy  state  it  may  be,  but  Heaven 
knows  his  wife,  poor  woman,  did  not  make  it  a  pleasant  one." 

"There  may  be  more  causes  for  that  than  we  guess  of,"  said 
the  clergyman,  mysteriously.  "  I  would  not  be  uncharitable, 
bi;t  — " 

"But  what?" 

"  Oh,  when  he  was  young,  our  great  man  was  not  so  cor- 
rect, I  fancy,  as  he  is  now." 

"So  I  have  heard  it  whispered;  but  nothing  against  him 
was  ever  known." 

"Hem,  it  is  very  odd!  " 


164  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

"  What 's  very  odd?  " 

"Why, —  but  it's  a  secret;  I  dare  say  it's  all  very  right." 

"  Oh,  I  sha'n't  say  a  word.  Are  you  going  to  the  cathedral? 
Don't  let  me  keep  you  standing.     ]Srow,  pray  proceed!  " 

"  Well,  then,  yesterday  I  was  doing  duty  in  a  village  more 
than  twenty  miles  tence,  and  I  loitered  in  the  village  to  take 
an  early  dinner;  and,  afterwards,  while  my  horse  was  feed- 
ing, I  strolled  down  the  green." 

"Well,  well?" 

"  And  I  saw  a  gentleman  muffled  carefully  up,  with  his  hat 
slouched  over  his  face,  at  the  door  of  a  cottage,  with  a  little 
child  in  his  arms ;  and  he  kissed  it  more  fondly  than,  be  we 
ever  so  good,  we  generally  kiss  other  people's  children;  and 
then  he  gave  it  to  a  peasant  woman  standing  near  him,  and 
mounted  his  horse,  which  was  tied  to  the  gate,  and  trotted 
past  me.     And  who  do  you  think  this  was?" 

"Patience  me,  I  can't  guess!  " 

"Why,  our  saintly  banker!  I  bowed  to  him,  and  I  assure 
you  he  turned  as  red,  ma'am,  as  your  waistband." 

"My!" 

"  I  just  turned  into  the  cottage  when  he  was  out  of  sight, 
for  I  was  thirsty,  and  asked  for  a  glass  of  water;  and  I  saw  the 
child.  I  declare  I  would  not  be  uncharitable,  but  I  thought 
it  monstrous  like  —  you  know  whom  !  " 

"  Gracious !  you  don't  say  —  " 

"  I  asked  the  woman  if  it  was  hers ;  and  she  said  '  No, '  but 
was  very  short." 

"Dear  me,  I  must  find  this  out!  What  is  the  name  of  the 
village?" 

"Covedale." 

"Oh,  I  know,  I  know!" 

"  Not  a  word  of  this ;  I  dare  say  there  is  nothing  in  it.  But 
I  am  not  much  in  favour  of  your  new  lights." 

"  Nor  I  neither.  What  better  than  the  good  old  Church  of 
England?  " 

"Madam,  your  sentiments  do  you  honour.  You'll  be  sure 
not  to  say  anything  of  our  little  mystery?  " 

"Not  a  syllable." 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  165 

Two  days  after  this,  three  old  maids  made  an  excursion  to 
the  village  of  Covedale,  and  lo!  the  cottage  in  question  was 
shut  up,  the  woman  and  the  child  were  gone.  The  people  in 
the  village  knew  nothing  about  them,  had  seen  nothing  par- 
ticular in  the  woman  or  child, —  had  always  supposed  them 
mother  and  daughter;  and  the  gentleman  identified  by  the 
clerical  inquisitor  with  the  banker  had  never  but  once  been 
observed  in  the  place. 

"The  vile  old  parson,"  said  the  eldest  of  the  old  maids, 
"to  take  away  so  good  a  man's  character!  and  the  fly  will  cost 
one  pound  two,  with  the  baiting!  " 


CHAPTER    VI. 

In  this  disposition  was  I  when,  looking  out  of  my  window  one  day  to  take 
the  air,  I  perceived  a  kind  of  peasant  who  looked  at  me  very  attentively. 

Gil  Bias. 

A  summer's  evening  in  a  retired  country  town  has  some- 
thing melancholy  in  it.  You  have  the  streets  of  a  metropolis 
without  their  animated  bustle ;  you  have  the  stillness  of  the 
country  without  its  birds  and  flowers.  The  reader  will  please 
to  bring  before  him  a  quiet  street  in  the  quiet  country  town 

of  C ,  in  a  quiet  evening  in  quiet  June ;  the  picture  is  not 

mirthful.  Two  young  dogs  are  playing  in  the  street;  one  old 
dog  is  watching  by  a  newly  painted  door.  A  few  ladies  of  mid- 
dle age  move  noiselessly  along  the  pavement,  returning  home 
to  tea;  they  wear  white  muslin  dresses,  green  spencers  a  little 
faded,  straw  poke  bonnets  with  green  or  coffee-coloured  gauze 
veils.  By  twos  and  threes  they  have  disappeared  within  the 
thresholds  of  small,  neat  houses,  with  little  railings  enclosing 
little  green  plots, —  threshold,  house,  railing,  and  plot  each 
as  like  to  the  other  as  are  those  small  commodities  called 
"nest-tables,"  which,  "even  as  a  broken  mirror  multiplies," 


166  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

summon  to  the  bewildered  eye  countless  iterations  of  one  four- 
legged  individual.     Paradise  Place  was  a  set  of  nest-houses. 

A  cow  had  passed  through  the  streets  with  a  milkwoman 
behind;  two  young  and  gay  shopmen,  "looking  after  the 
gals,"  had  reconnoitred  the  street,  and  vanished  in  despair. 
The  twilight  advanced,  but  gently;  and  though  a  star  or  two 
were  up,  the  air  was  still  clear.  At  the  open  window  of  one 
of  the  tenements  in  this  street  sat  Alice  Darvil.  She  had 
been  working  (that  pretty  excuse  to  women  for  thinking) ; 
and  as  the  thoughts  grew  upon  her,  and  the  evening  waned, 
the  work  had  fallen  upon  her  knee,  and  her  hands  dropped 
mechanically '  on  her  lap.  Her  profile  was  turned  towards 
the  street;  but  without  moving  her  head  or  changing  her  atti- 
tude, her  eyes  glanced  from  time  to  time  to  her  little  girl, 
who,  nestled  on  the  ground  beside  her,  tired  with  play,  and 
wondering,  perhaps,  why  she  was  not  already  in  bed,  seemed 
as  tranquil  as  the  young  mother  herself.  And  sometimes 
Alice's  eyes  filled  with  tears;  and  then  she  sighed,  as  if  to 
sigh  the  tears  away.  But,  poor  Alice,  if  she  grieved,  hers 
was  now  a  silent  and  a  patient  grief. 

The  street  was  deserted  of  all  other  passengers  when  a  man 
passed  along  the  pavement  on  the  side  opposite  to  Alice's 
house.  His  garb  was  rude  and  homely,  between  that  of  a 
labourer  and  a  farmer;  but  still  there  was  an  affectation  of 
tawdry  show  about  the  bright  scarlet  silk  handkerchief,  tied 
in  a  sailor  or  smuggler  fashion  round  the  sinewy  throat;  the 
hat  was  set  jauntily  on  one  side,  and,  dangling  many  an  inch 
from  the  gayly  striped  waistcoat,  glittered  a  watch-chain 
and  seals  which  appeared  suspiciously  out  of  character  with 
the  rest  of  his  attire.  The  passenger  was  covered  with  dust; 
and  as  the  street  was  in  a  suburb  communicating  with  the 
high-road,  and  formed  one  of  the  entrances  into  the  town,  he 
had  probably,  after  a  long  day's  journey,  reached  his  evening's 
destination.  The  looks  of  this  stranger  were  anxious,  restless, 
and  perturbed.  In  his  gait  and  swagger  there  was  the  reck- 
lessness of  the  professional  blackguard;  but  in  his  vigilant, 
prying,  suspicious  eyes  there  was  a  hang-dog  expression  of  ap- 
prehension and  fear.     He  seemed  a  man  upon  whom  Crime  had 


ERNEST  MALTKAVERS.  167 

set  its  significant  mark,  and  who  saw  a  purse  with  one  eye 
and  a  gibbet  with  the  other.  Alice  did  not  note  the  stranger 
until  she  herself  had  attracted  and  centred  all  his  attention. 
He  halted  abruptly  as  he  caught  a  view  of  her  face,  shaded 
his  eyes  with  his  hands  as  if  to  gaze  more  intently,  and  at 
length  burst  into  an  exclamation  of  surprise  and  pleasure. 
At  that  instant  Alice  turned,  and  her  gaze  met  that  of  the 
stranger.  The  fascination  of  the  basilisk  can  scarcely  more 
stun  and  paralyze  its  victim  than  the  look  of  this  stranger 
charmed,  with  the  appalling  glamoury  of  horror,  the  eye  and 
soul  of  Alice  Darvil.  Her  face  became  suddenly  locked  and 
rigid,  her  lips  as  white  as  marble,  her  eyes  almost  started 
from  their  sockets,  she  pressed  her  hands  convulsively  to- 
gether, and  shuddered,  but  still  she  did  not  move.  The  man 
nodded  and  grinned,  and  then,  deliberately  crossing  the  street, 
gained  the  door  and  knocked  loudly.  Still  Alice  did  not  stir; 
her  senses  seemed  to  have  forsaken  her.  Presently  the 
stranger's  loud,  rough  voice  was  heard  below,  in  answer  to 
the  accents  of  the  solitary  woman-servant  whom  Alice  kept  in 
her  employ;  and  his  strong,  heavy  tread  made  the  slight  stair- 
case creak  and  tremble.  Then  Alice  rose  as  by  an  instinct, 
caught  her  child  in  her  arms,  and  stood  erect  and  motionless, 
facing  the  door.  It  opened ;  and  the  father  and  daughter 
were  once  more  face  to  face  within  the  same  walls. 

"Well,  Alley,  how  are  you,  my  blowen?  Glad  to  see  your 
old  dad  again,  I'll  be  sworn.  No  ceremony,  sit  down!  Ha, 
ha!  snug  here,  very  snug;  we  shall  live  together  charmingly. 
Trade  on  your  own  account,  eh?  sly!  Well,  can't  desert  your 
poor  old  father.     Let 's  have  something  to  eat  and  drink." 

So  saying,  Darvil  threw  himself  at  length  upon  the  neat, 
prim,  little  chintz  sofa,  with  the  air  of  a  man  resolved  to 
make  himself  perfectly  at  home. 

Alice  gazed,  and  trembled  violently,  but  still  said  nothing; 
the  power  of  voice  had  indeed  left  her. 

"Come,  why  don't  you  stir  your  stumps?  I  suppose  I  must 
wait  on  myself.  Fine  manners!  But,  ho,  ho, —  a  bell,  by 
gosh!  Mighty  grand!  Never  mind;  I  am  used  to  call  for 
mv  own  wants." 


168  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

A  hearty  tug  at  the  frail  bell-rope  sent  a  shrill  alarm  half- 
way through  the  long  lath-and-plaster  row  of  Paradise  Place, 
and  left  the  instrument  of  the  sound  in  the  hand  of  its 
creator. 

Up  came  the  maid-servant,  a  formal  old  woman,  most 
respectable. 

"Hark  ye,  old  girl!"  said  Darvil,  "bring  up  the  best  you 
have  to  eat, —  not  particular;  let  there  be  plenty.  And  I  say, 
a  bottle  of  brandy.  Come,  don't  stand  there  staring  like  a 
stuck  pig.     Budge!     Hell  and  furies !  don't  you  hear  me?" 

The  servant  retreated,  as  if  a  pistol  had  been  put  to  her 
head;  and  Darvil,  laughing  loud,  threw  himself  again  upon 
the  sofa.  Alice  looked  at  him,  and,  still  without  saying  a 
word,  glided  from  the  room,  her  child  in  her  arms.  She  hur- 
ried downstairs,  and  in  the  hall  met  her  servant.  The  latter, 
who  was  much  attached  to  her  mistress,  was  alarmed  to  see 
her  about  to  leave  the  house. 

"  Why,  marm,  where  be  you  going?  Dear  heart,  you  have 
no  bonnet  on!     What  is  the  matter?    Who  is  this?  " 

"Oh!"  cried  Alice,  in  agony,  "what  shall  I  do?  Where 
shall  I  fly?"  The  door  above  opened.  Alice  heard,  started, 
and  the  next  moment  was  in  the  street.  She  ran  on  breath- 
lessl}',  and  like  one  insane.  Her  mind  was,  indeed,  for  the 
time,  gone ;  and  had  a  river  flowed  before  her  way,  she  would 
have  plunged  into  an  escape  from  a  world  that  seemed  too 
narrow  to  hold  a  father  and  his  child. 

But  just  as  she  turned  the  corner  of  a  street  that  led  into 
the  more  public  thoroughfares,  she  felt  her  arm  grasped,  and 
a  voice  called  out  her  name  in  surprised  and  startled  accents. 

"Heavens,  Mrs.  Butler!  Alice!  What  do  T  see?  What 
is  the  matter?  " 

"Oh,  sir,  save  me  !  You  are  a  good  man  —  a  great  man; 
save  me, — he  is  returned!  " 

"He  !  who?  Mr.  Butler?"  said  the  banker  (for  that  gen- 
tleman it  was),  in  a  changed  and  trembling  voice. 

"  No,  no  —  ah,  not  he ! —  I  did  not  say  he,  I  said  my  father  — 
my,  my  —  ah  —  look  behind  —  look  behind  —  is  he  coming?  " 

"  Calm  yourself,  my  dear  young  friend,  no  one  is  near.     I 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  169 

will  go  and  reason  with  your  father.  No  one  shall  harm  you; 
I  will  protect  you.  Go  back,  go  back;  I  will  follow,  —  we 
must  not  be  seen  together!  "  And  the  tall  banker  seemed  try- 
ing to  shrink  into  a  nutshell. 

"No,  no,"  said  Alice,  growing  yet  paler;  "I  cannot  go 
back." 

"Well,  then,  just  follow  me  to  the  door;  your  servant  shall 
get  you  your  bonnet,  and  accompany  you  to  my  house,  where 
you  can  wait  till  I  return.  Meanwhile  I  will  see  your  father, 
and  rid  you,  I  trust,  of  his  presence." 

The  banker,  who  spoke  in  a  very  hurried  and  even  impa- 
tient voice,  waited  for  no  reply,  but  took  his  way  to  Alice's 
house.  Alice  herself  did  not  follow,  but  remained  in  the 
very  place  where  she  was  left,  till  joined  by  her  servant,  who 
then  conducted  her  to  the  rich  man's  residence.  Eut  Alice's 
mind  had  not  recovered  its  shock,  and  her  thoughts  wandered 
alarmingly. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Miramont.     Do  they  chafe  roundly  ? 

Andrew.       As  they  were  rubbed  with  soap,  sir. 

And  now  they  swear  aloud,  now  calm  again 

Like  a  ring  of  bells,  whose  sound  the  wind  still  utters ; 

And  then  they  sit  in  council  what  to  do, 

And  then  they  jar  again  what  shall  be  done. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

Oh  !  what  a  picture  of  human  nature  it  was  when  the  banker 
and  the  vagabond  sat  together  in  that  little  drawing-room  fac- 
ing each  other, —  one  in  the  armchair,  one  on  the  sofa!  Darvil 
was  still  employed  on  some  cold  meat,  and  was  making  wry 
faces  at  the  very  indifferent  brandy  which  he  had  frightened 
the  formal  old  servant  into  buying  at  the  nearest  public- 
house  ;  and  opposite  sat  the  respectable,  highly  respectable, 
man  of  forms  and  ceremonies,  of  decencies  and  quackeries, 


170  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

gazing  gravely  upon  this  low,  dare-devil  ruffian;  the  well-to- 
do  hypocrite,  the  penniless  villain;  the  man  who  had  every- 
thing to  lose,  —  the  man  who  had  nothing  in  the  wide  world  but 
his  own  mischievous,  rascally  life,  a  gold  watch,  chain,  and 
seals,  which  he  had  stolen  the  day  before,  and  thirteen  shil- 
lings and  threepence  halfpenny  in  his  left  breeches  pocket! 

The  man  of  wealth  was  by  no  means  well  acquainted  with 
the  nature  of  the  beast  before  him.  He  had  heard  from  Mrs. 
Leslie  (as  we  remember)  the  outline  of  Alice's  history,  and 
ascertained  that  their  joint  pvoUgee,'' s  father  was  a  great 
blackguard;  but  he  expected  to  find  Mr.  Darvil  a  mere  dull, 
brutish  villain,  a  peasant-ruffian,  a  blunt  serf,  without  brains, 
or  their  substitute,  effrontery.  But  Luke  Darvil  was  a  clever, 
half -educated  fellow ;  he  did  not  sin  from  ignorance,  but  had 
wit  enough  to  have  bad  principles,  and  he  was  as  impudent 
as  if  he  had  lived  all  his  life  in  the  best  society.  He  was  not 
frightened  at  the  banker's  drab  breeches  and  imposing  air, 
not  he !  The  Duke  of  Wellington  would  not  have  frightened 
Luke  Darvil,  unless  his  Grace  had  had  the  constables  for 
his  aides-de-camjy. 

The  banker,  to  use  a  homely  phrase,  was  "taken  aback." 
"Look  you  here,  Mr.  What 's-your-name,"  said  Darvil, 
swallowing  a  glass  of  the  raw  alcohol  as  if  it  had  been  water, 
—  "look  you  now,  you  can't  humbug  me.  What  the  devil  do 
you  care  about  my  daughter's  respectability,  or  comfort,  or 
anything  else,  grave  old  dog  as  you  are !  It  is  my  daughter 
herself  you  are  licking  your  brown  old  chaps  at!  and,  faith, 
my  Alley  is  a  very  pretty  girl,  very;  but  queer  as  moonshine. 
You  '11  drive  a  much  better  bargain  with  me  than  with  her." 

The  banker  coloured  scarlet;  he  bit  his  lips  and  measured 
his  companion  from  head  to  foot,  while  the  latter  lolled  on 
the  sofa,  as  if  he  were  meditating  the  possibility  of  kicking 
him  downstairs.  But  Luke  Darvil  would  have  thrashed  the 
banker  and  all  his  clerks  into  the  bargain.  His  frame  was 
like  a  trunk  of  thews  and  muscles  packed  up  by  that  careful 
Dame  Nature  as  tightly  as  possible ;  and  a  prize-fighter  would 
have  thought  twice  before  he  entered  the  ring  against  so 
awkward  a  customer.     The  banker  was  a  man  prudent  to  a 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  171 

fault,  and  he  pushed  his  chair  six  inches  back  as  he  concluded 
his  survey. 

*'  Sir, "  then  said  he,  very  quietly,  "  do  not  let  us  misunder- 
stand each  other.  Your  daughter  is  safe  from  your  control; 
if  you  molest  her,  the  law  will  protect  —  " 

"She  is  not  of  age,"  said  Darvil.     "Your  health,  old  boy!  " 

"Whether  she  is  of  age  or  not,"  returned  the  banker,  un- 
heeding the  courtesy  conveyed  in  the  last  sentence,  "  I  do  not 
care  three  straws ;  I  know  enough  of  the  law  to  know  that  if 
she  have  rich  friends  in  this  town,  and  you  have  none,  she 
will  be  protected  and  you  will  go  to  the  treadmill." 

"That  is  spoken  like  a  sensible  man,"  said  Darvil,  for  the 
first  time  with  a  show  of  respect  in  his  manner;  "you  now 
take  a  practical  view  of  matters,  as  we  used  to  say  at  the 
spouting-club." 

"  If  I  were  in  your  situation,  Mr.  Darvil,  I  tell  you  what  I 
would  do.  I  would  leave  my  daughter  and  this  town  to- 
morrow morning,  and  I  would  promise  never  to  return,  and 
never  to  molest  her,  on  condition  she  allowed  me  a  certain 
sum  from  her  earnings,  paid  quarterly." 

"And  if  I  preferred  living  with  her?  " 

"  In  that  case,  I,  as  a  magistrate  of  this  town,  would  have 
you  sent  away  as  a  vagrant,  or  apprehended  —  " 

"Ha!" 

"  Apprehended  on  suspicion  of  stealing  that  gold  chain  and 
seals  w^hich  you  wear  so  ostentatiously." 

"By  goles,  but  you  're  a  clever  fellow,"  said  Darvil,  invol- 
untarily; "you  know  human  natur'." 

The  banker  smiled ;  strange  to  say,  he  was  pleased  with  the 
compliment. 

"But,"  resumed  Darvil,  helping  himself  to  another  slice  of 
beef,  "you  are  in  the  wrong  box, —  planted  in  Queer  Street,  as 
we  say  in  London ;  for  if  you  care  a  d — n  about  my  daughter's 
respectability,  you  will  never  muzzle  her  father  on  suspicion 
of  theft,  —  and  so  there  's  tit  for  tat,  my  old  gentleman  I  " 

"  I  shall  deny  that  you  are  her  father,  Mr.  Darvil ;  and  I 
think  you  will  find  it  hard  to  prove  the  fact  in  any  town 
where  I  am  a  magistrate.'' 


172  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

"  By  goles,  what  a  good  prig  you  would  have  made !  You 
are  as  sharp  as  a  gimlet.  Surely  you  were  brought  up  at  the 
Old  Bailey!" 

*'  Mr.  Darvil,  be  ruled.  You  seem  a  man  not  deaf  to  rea- 
son, and  I  ask  you  whether,  in  any  town  in  this  country,  a 
poor  man  in  suspicious  circumstances  can  do  anything  against 
a  rich  man  whose  character  is  established?  Perhaps  you  are 
right  in  the  main ;  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  that.  But  1 
tell  you  that  you  shall  quit  this  house  in  half  an  hour ;  that 
you  shall  never  enter  it  again  but  at  your  peril ;  and  if  you 
do,  within  ten  minutes  from  that  time  you  shall  be  in  the 
town  jail.  It  is  no  longer  a  contest  between  you  and  your 
defenceless  daughter,  it  is  a  contest  between —  " 

"A  tramper  in  fustian  and  a  gemman  as  drives  a  coach," 
interrupted  Darvil,  laughing  bitterly,  yet  heartily.  "Good, 
good!  " 

The  banker  rose.  "  I  think  you  have  made  a  very  clever  defi- 
nition," said  he.    "Half  an  hour,  you  recollect!  Good  evening." 

"Stay,"  said  Darvil;  "you  are  the  first  man  I  have  seen 
for  many  a  year  that  I  can  take  a  fancy  to.  Sit  down,  sit 
down,  I  say,  and  talk  a  bit,  and  we  shall  come  to  terms  soon, 
I  dare  say.  That 's  right.  Lord,  how  I  should  like  to  have 
you  on  the  roadside,  instead  of  within  these  four  gimcrack 
walls!  Ha!  ha!  the  argufying  would  be  all  in  my  favour 
then." 

The  banker  was  not  a  brave  man,  and  his  colour  changed 
slightly  at  the  intimation  of  this  obliging  wish.  Darvil  eyed 
him  grimly  and  chucklingly. 

The  rich  man  resumed:  "That  may  or  may  not  be,  Mr. 
Darvil,  according  as  I  might  happen  or  not  to  have  pistols 
about  me.  But  to  the  point.  Quit  this  house  without  fur- 
ther debate,  without  noise,  without  mentioning  to  any  one 
else  your  claim  upon  its  owner  —  " 

"Well,  and  the  return?" 

"  Ten  guineas  now,  and  the  same  sum  quarterly  as  long  as 
the  young  lady  lives  in  this  town  and  you  never  persecute  her 
by  word  or  letter." 

"That  is  forty  guineas  a  year;  I  can't  live  upon  it." 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  173 

"You  will  cost  less  in  the  House  of  Correction,  Mr. 
Darvil." 

"Come,  make  it  a  hundred;  Alley  is  cheap  at  that." 

"Not  a  farthing  more,"  said  the  banker,  buttoning  up  his 
breeches  pockets  with  a  determined  air. 

"Well,  out  with  the  shiners." 

"Do  you  promise  or  not?  " 

"I  promise." 

"  There  are  your  ten  guineas.  If  in  half  an  hour  you  are 
not  gone,  why,  then  —  " 

"Then?" 

"  Why,  then  you  have  robbed  me  of  ten  guineas,  and  must 
take  the  usual  consequences  of  robbery." 

Darvil  started  to  his  feet,  his  eyes  glared;  he  grasped  the 
carving-knife  before  him. 

"  You  are  a  bold  fellow, "  said  the  banker,  quietly,  "  but  it 
won't  do.  It  is  not  worth  your  while  to  murder  me,  and  I 
am  a  man  sure  to  be  missed." 

Darvil  sank  down,  sullen  and  foiled.  The  respectable 
man  was  more  than  a  match  for  the  villain. 

"  Had  you  been  as  poor  as  I,  Gad,  what  a  rogue  you  would 
have  been!  " 

"I  think  not,"  said  the  banker;  "I  believe  roguery  to  be  a 
very  bad  policy.  Perhaps  once  I  was  almost  as  poor  as  you 
are,  but  I  never  turned  rogue." 

"You  never  were  in  my  circumstances,"  returned  Darvil, 
gloomily.  "  I  was  a  gentleman's  son.  Come,  you  shall  hear 
my  story.  My  father  was  well-born,  but  married  a  maid- 
servant when  he  was  at  college;  his  family  disowned  him, 
and  left  him  to  starve.  He  died  in  the  struggle  against  a 
poverty  he  was  not  brought  up  to,  and  my  dam  went  into 
service  again,  became  housekeeper  to  an  old  bachelor,  sent 
me  to  school;  but  Mother  had  a  family  by  the  old  bachelor, 
and  I  was  taken  from  school  and  put  to  trade.  All  hated 
me,  for  I  was  ugly,  damn  them!  Mother  cut  me.  I  wanted 
money,  robbed  the  old  bachelor,  was  sent  to  jail,  and  learned 
there  a  lesson  or  two  how  to  rob  better  in  future.  Mother 
died;  I  was  adrift  on  the  world.    The  world  was  my  foe;  could 


174  ERNEST   MALTRAYERS. 

not  make  it  up  with  the  world,  so  we  went  to  war,  — you  un- 
derstand, old  boy?  Married  a  poor  woman  and  pretty, — wife 
made  me  jealous;  had  learned  to  suspect  every  one.  Alice 
born;  did  not  believe  her  mine, —  not  like  me;  perhaps  a  gen- 
tleman's child.  I  hate,  I  loathe  gentlemen.  Got  drunk  one 
night;  kicked  my  wife  in  the  stomach  three  weeks  after  her 
confinement.  Wife  died;  tried  for  my  life, —  got  off.  Went 
to  another  county ;  having  had  a  sort  of  education,  and  being 
sharp  eno',  got  work  as  a  mechanic.  Hated  work  just  as  I 
hated  gentlemen, —  for  was  I  not  by  blood  a  gentleman? 
There  was  the  curse.     Alice  grew  up;   never  looked  on  her 

as   my   flesh   and   blood.     Her   mother   was   a   w ,    why 

should  not  she  be  one?  There,  —  that's  enough;  plenty  of 
excuse,  I  think,  for  all  I  have  ever  done.  Curse  the  world ; 
curse  the  rich ;  curse  the  handsome ;  curse,  curse  all !  " 

"You  have  been  a  very  foolish  man,"  said  the  banker,  "and 
seem  to  me  to  have  had  very  good  cards,  if  you  had  known 
how  to  pla}'  them.  However,  that  is  your  lookout.  It  is  not 
yet  too  late  to  repent;  age  is  creeping  on  you.  Man,  there 
is  another  world." 

The  banker  said  the  last  words  with  a  tone  of  solemn  and 
even  dignified  adjuration. 

"  You  think  so,  do  you?  "  said  Darvil,  staring  at  him. 

"From  my  soul  I  do." 

"Then  you  are  not  the  sensible  man  I  took  you  for,"  re- 
plied Darvil,  dryly;  "and  I  should  like  to  talk  to  you  on  that 
subject." 

But  our  Dives,  however  sincere  a  believer,  was  by  no  means 

one  — 

"At  whose  control 

Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul." 

He  had  words  of  comfort  for  the  pious,  but  he  had  none  for 
the  sceptic;  he  could  soothe,  but  he  could  not  convert, —  it 
was  not  in  his  way;  besides,  he  saw  no  credit  in  making  a 
convert  of  Luke  Darvil.  Accordingly,  he  again  rose,  Avith 
some  quickness,   and  said, — 

"No,  sir,  that  is  useless,  I  fear,  and  I  have  no  time  to 
spare;  and  so  once  more  good -night  to  you." 


ERNEST   MALTRAVEllS.  175 

"But  you  have  not  arranged  where  my  allowance  is  to  be 
sent." 

"Ah!  true;  I  will  guarantee  it.  You  will  find  my  name 
sufficient  security." 

"At  least,  it  is  the  best  I  can  get,"  returned  Darvil,  care- 
lessly; "and,  after  all,  it  is  not  a  bad  chance  day's  work. 
But  I'm  sure  I  can't  say  where  the  money  shall  be  sent.  1 
don't  know  a  man  who  Avould  not  grab  it." 

"Very  well,  then;  the  best  thing  (I  speak  as  a  man  of  busi- 
ness) will  be  to  draw  on  me  for  ten  guineas  quarterly. 
Wherever  you  are  staying,  any  banker  can  effect  this  for  you. 
But  mind,  if  ever  you  overdraw,  the  account  stops." 

"I  understand,"  said  Darvil;  "and  when  I  have  finished 
the  bottle  I  shall  be  off." 

"You  had  better,"  replied  the  banker,  as  he  opened  the 
door. 

The  rich  man  returned  home  hurriedly.  "So  Alice,  after 
all,  has  some  gentle  blood  in  her  veins,"  thought  he.  "But 
that  father,  —  no,  it  will  never  do.  I  wish  he  were  hanged, 
and  nobody  the  wiser.  I  should  very  much  like  to  arrange 
the  matter  without  marrying;  but  then  —  scandal,  scandal, 
scandal.  After  all,  I  had  better  give  up  all  thoughts  of  her. 
She  is  monstrous  handsome,  and  so  —  Humph !  I  shall  never 
grow  an  old  man." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Began  to  bend  down  liis  admiring  eyes 

On  all  her  touching  looks  and  qualities, 

Turning  their  shapely  sweetness  every  way 

Till  'twas  his  food  and  habit  day  by  day.  —  Lkigii  Hunt. 

There  must  have  been  a  secret  something  about  Alice  Darvil 
singularly  captivating  that  (associated  as  she  was  with  images 
of  the  most  sordid  and  the  vilest  crimes)  left  her  still  pure  and 


176  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

lovely  alike  in  the  eyes  of  a  man  as  fastidious  as  Ernest  Mal- 
travers  and  of  a  man  as  influenced  by  all  the  thoughts  and 

theories  of  the  world  as  the  shrewd  banker  of  C .     Amidst 

things  foul  and  hateful  had  sprung  up  this  beautiful  flower, 
as  if  to  preserve  the  inherent  heavenliness  and  grace  of  hu- 
man nature,  and  proclaim  the  handiwork  of  God  in  scenes 
where  human  nature  had  been  most  debased  by  the  abuses  of 
social  art,  and  where  the  light  of  God  himself  was  most  dark- 
ened and  obscured.  That  such  contrasts,  though  rarely  and  as 
by  chance,  are  found,  every  one  who  has  carefully  examined 
the  wastes  and  deserts  of  life  must  own.  I  have  drawn  Alice 
Darvil  scrupulously  from  life,  and  I  can  declare  that  I  have 
not  exaggerated  hue  or  lineament  in  the  portrait.  I  do  not 
suppose,  with  our  good  banker,  that  she  owed  anything,  un- 
less it  might  be  a  greater  delicacy  of  form  and  feature,  to 
whatever  mixture  of  gentle  blood  was  in  her  veins.  But 
somehow  or  other,  in  her  original  conformation  there  was  the 
happy  bias  of  the  plants,  towards  the  Pure  and  the  Bright. 
For,  despite  Helvetius,  a  common  experience  teaches  us  that 
though  education  and  circumstances  may  mould  the  mass, 
Nature  herself  sometimes  forms  the  individual,  and  throws 
into  the  clay,  or  its  spirit,  so  much  of  beauty  or  deformity 
that  nothing  can  utterly  subdue  the  original  elements  of  char- 
acter. From  sweets  one  draws  poison ;  from  poisons  another 
extracts  but  sweets.  But  I,  often  deeply  pondering  over  the 
psychological  history  of  Alice  Darvil,  think  that  one  princi- 
pal cause  why  she  escaped  the  early  contaminations  around 
her  was  in  the  slow  and  protracted  development  of  her  intel- 
lectual faculties.  Whether  or  not  the  brutal  violence  of  her 
father  had  in  childhood  acted  through  the  nerves  upon  the 
brain,  certain  it  is  that  until  she  knew  Maltravers, —  until 
she  loved,  till  she  was  cherished, —  her  mind  had  seemed 
torpid  and  locked  up.  True,  Darvil  had  taught  her  nothing, 
nor  permitted  her  to  be  taught  anything;  but  that  mere  igno- 
rance would  have  been  no  preservation  to  a  quick,  observant 
mind.  It  was  the  bluntness  of  the  senses  themselves  that 
operated  like  an  armour  between  her  mind  and  the  vile  things 
around  her.     It  was  the  rough,  dull  covering  of  the  chrysalis, 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  177 

framed  to  bear  rude  contact  and  biting  weather,  that  the  but- 
terfly might  break  forth,  winged  and  glorious,  in  due  season. 
Had  Alice  been  a  quick  child,  Alice  would  have  probably 
grown  up  a  depraved  and  dissolute  woman ;  but  she  compre- 
hended, she  understood,  little  or  nothing  till  she  found  an  in- 
spirer  in  that  affection  which  inspires  both  beast  and  man, 
which  makes  the  dog  (in  his  natural  state  one  of  the  meanest 
of  the  savage  race)  a  companion,  a  guardian,  a  protector,  and 
raises  Instinct  half-way  to  the  height  of  Reason. 

The  banker  had  a  strong  regard  for  Alice,  and  when  he 
reached  home  he  heard  with  great  pain  that  she  was  in  a  high 
state  of  fever.  She  remained  beneath  his  roof  that  night, 
and  the  elderly  gentlewoman,  his  relation  and  gouvernante, 
attended  her.  The  banker  slept  but  little,  and  the  next  morn- 
ing his  countenance  was  unusually  pale. 

Towards  daybreak  Alice  had  fallen  into  a  sound  and  re- 
freshing sleep;  and  when,  on  waking,  she  found,  by  a  note 
from  her  host,  that  her  father  had  left  her  house  and  she 
might  return  in  safety  and  without  fear,  a  violent  flood  of 
tears,  followed  by  long  and  grateful  prayer,  contributed  to 
the  restoration  of  her  mind  and  nerves.  Imperfect  as  this 
young  woman's  notions  of  abstract  right  and  wrong  still 
were,  she  was  yet  sensible  to  the  claims  of  a  father  —  no 
matter  how  criminal  —  upon  his  child;  for  feelings  with  her 
were  so  good  and  true  that  they  supplied  in  a  great  measure 
the  place  of  principles.  She  knew  that  she  could  not  have 
lived  under  the  same  roof  with  her  dreadful  parent;  but  she 
still  felt  an  uneasy  remorse  at  thinking  he  had  been  driven 
from  that  roof  in  destitution  and  want.  She  hastened  to 
dress  herself  and  seek  an  audience  with  her  protector;  and  the 
latter  found  with  admiration  and  pleasure  that  he  had  antici- 
pated her  own  instantaneous  and  involuntary  design  in  the 
settlement  made  upon  Darvil.  He  then  communicated  to 
Alice  the  compact  he  had  already  formed  with  her  father, 
and  she  wept  and  kissed  his  hand  when  she  heard,  and  se- 
cretly resolved  that  she  would  work  hard  to  be  enabled  to  in- 
crease the  sum  allowed.  Oh,  if  her  labours  could  serve  to 
retrieve  a  parent  from  the  necessity  of  darker  resources  for 

12 


178  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

support !  Aias !  when  crime  has  become  a  custom,  it  is  like 
gaming  or  drinking,  —  the  excitement  is  wanting;  and  had 
Luke  Darvil  been  suddenly  made  inheritor  of  the  wealth  of  a 
Rothschild,  he  would  either  still  have  been  a  villain  in  one 
way  or  the  other,  or  ennui  would  have  awakened  conscience, 
and  he  would  have  died  of  the  change  of  habit. 

Our  banker' always  seemed  more  struck  by  Alice's  moral 
feelings  than  even  by  her  physical  beauty.  Her  love  for  her 
child,  for  instance,  impressed  him  powerfully,  and  he  always 
gazed  upon  her  with  softer  eyes  when  he  saw  her  caressing  or 
nursing  the  little  fatherless  creature,  whose  health  was  now 
delicate  and  precarious.  It  is  difficult  to  say  whether  he  was 
absolutely  in  love  with  Alice, —  the  phrase  is  too  strong,  per- 
haps, to  be  applied  to  a  man  past  fifty,  who  had  gone  through 
emotions  and  trials  enough  to  wear  away  freshness  from  his 
heart.  His  feelings  altogether  for  Alice,  the  designs  he  en- 
tertained towards  her,  were  of  a  very  complicated  nature; 
and  it  will  be  long,  perhaps,  before  the  reader  can  thoroughly 
comprehend  them.  He  conducted  Alice  home  that  day;  but 
he  said  little  by  the  way, —  perhaps  because  his  female  rela- 
tion, for  appearance's  sake,  accompanied  them  also.  He, 
however,  briefly  cautioned  Alice  on  no  account  to  communicate 
to  any  one  that  it  was  her  father  who  had  been  her  visitor; 
and  she  still  shuddered  too  much  at  the  reminiscence  to  aj)- 
pear  likely  to  converse  on  it.  The  banker  also  judged  it  ad- 
visable to  be  so  far  confidential  with  Alice's  servant  as  to  take 
her  aside  and  tell  her  that  the  inauspicious  stranger  of  the 
previous  evening  had  been  a  very  distant  relation  of  Mrs. 
Butler,  who,  from  a  habit  of  drunkenness,  had  fallen  iuto 
evil  and  disorderly  courses.  The  banker  added,  with  a  sanc- 
tified air,  that  he  trusted,  by  a  little  serious  conversation,  he 
had  led  the  poor  man  to  better  notions,  and  that  he  had  gone 
home  with  an  altered  mind  to  his  family.  "But,  my  good 
Hannah,"  he  concluded,  "you  know  you  are  a  superior  per- 
son, and  above  the  vulgar  sin  of  indiscriminate  gossip;  there- 
fore, mention  what  has  occurred  to  no  one,  —  it  can  do  no 
good  to  Mrs.  Butler;  it  may  hurt  the  man  himself,  who  is 
well-to-do, — better  off  than  he  seems,  and  who,  I  hope,  with 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  17'J 

grace,  may  be  a  sincere  penitent;  and  it  will  also  —  but  that 
IS  nothing  —  very  seriously  displease  me.  By  the  by,  Han- 
nah, I  shall  be  able  to  get  your  grandson  into  the  Free 
School." 

The  banker  was  shrewd  enough  to  perceive  that  he  had  car- 
ried his  point;  and  he  was  walking  home,  satisfied,  on  the 
whole,  with  the  way  matters  had  been  arranged,  when  he  was 
met  by  a  brother  magistrate. 

"Ha!"  said  the  latter,  "and  how  are  you,  my  good  sir? 
Do  you  know  that  we  have  had  the  Bow  Street  officers  here, 
in  search  of  a  notorious  villain  who  has  broken  from  prison? 
He  is  one  of  the  most'  determined  and  dexterous  burglars  in 
all  England,  and  the  runners  have  hunted  him  into  our  town. 
His  very  robberies  have  tracked  him  by  the  way.  He  robbed 
a  gentleman  the  day  before  yesterday  of  his  watch,  and  left 
him  for  dead  on  the  road, —  this  was  not  thirty  miles  hence." 

"Bless  me!  "  said  the  banker,  with  emotion;  "and  what  is 
the  wretch's  name?" 

"  Why,  he  has  as  many  aliases  as  a  Spanish  grandee :  but 
I  believe  the  last  name  he  has  assumed  is  Peter  Watts." 

"Oh!"  said  our  friend,  relieved, —  "well,  have  the  runners 
found  him?" 

"No,  but  they  are  on  his  scent.  A  fellow  answering  to  his 
description  was  seen  by  the  man  at  the  toll-bar,  at  daybreak 

this  morning,   on   the  way  to  F ;    the  officers  are  after 

him." 

"I  hope  he  may  meet  with  his  deserts, —  and  crime  is  never 
unpunished,  even  in  this  world.  My  best  compliments  to 
your  lady.  And  how  is  little  Jack?  Well!  glad  to  hear  it, 
—  fine  boy,  little  Jack!     Good-day." 

"Good-day,  my  dear  sir.     Worthy  man,  that!  " 


180  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 


CHAPTEK   IX. 

"  But  who  is  this  ?  "  thought  he.     "  A  demon  vile. 
With  wicked  meaning  and  a  vulgar  style,  — 
Hammond  they  call  him ;  they  can  give  the  name 
Of  man  to  devils.     Why  am  I  so  tame  1 
Why  crush  I  not  the  viper  ?  "    Fear  replied, 
"Watch  him  a  while,  and  let  his  strength  be  tried."  — Ckabbe. 

The  next  morning,  after  breakfast,  the  banker  took  his 
horse,  —  a  crop-eared,  fast-trotting  hackney,  —  and  merely 
leaving  word  that  he  was  going  upon  business  into  the  coun- 
try and  should  not  return  to  dinner,  turned  his  back  on  the 
spires  of  C . 

He  rode  slowly,  for  the  day  was  hot.  The  face  of  the  coun- 
try, which  was  fair  and  smiling,  might  have  tempted  others 
to  linger  by  the  way ;  but  our  hard  and  practical  man  of  the 
world  was  more  influenced  by  the  weather  than  the  loveliness 
of  the  scenery.  He  did  not  look  upon  Nature  with  the  eye  of 
imagination;  perhaps  a  railroad,  had  it  then  and  there  ex- 
isted, would  have  pleased  him  better  than  the  hanging  woods, 
the  shadowy  valleys,  and  the  changeful  river  that  from  time 
to  time  beautified  the  landscape  on  either  side  the  road.  But, 
after  all,  there  is  a  vast  deal  of  hypocrisy  in  the  affected  ad- 
miration for  Nature;  and  I  don't  think  one  person  in  a  hun- 
dred cares  for  what  lies  by  the  side  of  a  road,  so  long  as  the 
road  itself  is  good,  hills  levelled,  and  turnpikes  cheap. 

It  was  mid-noon,  and  many  miles  had  been  passed,  when  the 
banker  turned  down  a  green  lane  and  quickened  his  pace.  At 
the  end  of  about  three  quarters  of  an  hour  he  arrived  at  a  lit- 
tle solitary  inn  called  "The  Angler,"  put  up  his  horse,  or- 
dered his  dinner  at  six  o'clock,  begged  to  borrow  a  basket  to 
hold  his  fish ;  and  it  was  then  apparent  that  a  longish  cane  he 
had  carried  with  him  was  capable  of  being  extended  into  a 
fishing-rod.     He  fitted  in  the  various  joints  with  care,  as  if 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  181 

to  be  sure  no  accident  had  happened  to  the  implement  by  the 
journey;  pried  anxiously  into  the  contents  of  a  black  case  of 
lines  and  flies,  slung  the  basket  behind  his  back,  and  while 
his  horse  was  putting  down  his  nose  and  whisking  about  his 
tail,  in  the  course  of  those  nameless  coquetries  that  horses 
carry  on  with  hostlers,  our  worthy  brother  of  the  rod  strode 
rapidly  through  some  green  fields,  gained  the  river  side,  and 
began  fishing  with  much  semblance  of  earnest  interest  in  the 
sport.  He  had  caught  one  trout, —  seemingly  by  accident; 
for  the  astonished  fish  was  hooked  up  on  the  outside  of  its 
jaw,  probably  while  in  the  act,  not  of  biting,  but  of  gazing  at, 
the  bait, —  when  he  grew  discontented  with  the  spot  he  had 
selected;  and  after  looking  round  as  if  to  convince  himself 
that  he  was  not  liable  to  be  disturbed  or  observed  (a  thought 
hateful  to  the  fishing  fraternity),  he  stole  quickly  along  the 
margin,  and  finally  quitting  the  river  side  altogether,  struck 
into  a  path  that,  after  a  sharp  walk  of  nearly  an  hour,  brought 
him  to  the  door  of  a  cottage.  He  knocked  twice,  and  then 
entered  of  his  own  accord;  nor  was  it  till  the  summer  sun 
was  near  its  decline  that  the  banker  regained  his  inn.  His 
simple  dinner,  which  they  had  delayed  in  wonder  at  the  pro- 
tracted absence  of  the  angler  and  in  expectation  of  the  fishes 
he  was  to  bring  back  to  be  fried,  was  soon  despatched;  his 
horse  was  ordered  to  the  door,  and  the  red  clouds  in  the  west 
already  betokened  the  lapse  of  another  day  as  he  spurred  from 
the  spot  on  the  fast-trotting  hackney,  fourteen  miles  an  hour. 

"  That  'ere  gemman  has  a  nice  bit  of  blood,"  said  the  hostler, 
scratching  his  ear. 

"Oiy;  who  be  he?"  said  a  hanger-on  of  the  stables. 

"  I  dooan't  know.  He  has  been  here  twice  afoar,  and  he 
never  cautches  anything  to  sinnify, —  he  be  mighty  fond  of 
fishing,  snvelt/." 

Meanwhile,  away  sped  the  banker;  milestone  on  milestone 
glided  by,  and  still,  scarce  turning  a  hair,  trotted  gallantly 
out  the  good  hackney.  But  the  evening  grew  darker,  and  it 
began  to  rain, —  a  drizzling,  persevering  rain,  that  wets  a  man 
through  ere  he  is  aware  of  it.  After  his  fiftieth  year,  a  gen- 
tleman who  has  a  tender  regard  for  himself  does  not  like  to 


182  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

get  wet;  and  the  rain  inspired  the  banker,  who  was  subject 
to  rheumatism,  witli  the  resolution  to  take  a  short  cut  along 
the  fields.  There  were  one  or  two  low  hedges  by  this  short 
way ;  but  the  banker  had  been  there  in  the  spring,  and  knew 
every  inch  of  the  ground.  The  hackney  leaped  easily,  and  the 
rider  had  a  tolerably  practised  seat,  and  two  miles  saved 
might  just  prevent  the  menaced  rheumatism ;  accordingly,  our 
friend  opened  a  white  gate  and  scoured  along  the  fields  with- 
out any  misgivings  as  to  the  prudence  of  his  choice.  He  ar- 
rived at  his  first  leap :  there  was  the  hedge,  its  summit  just 
discernible  in  the  dim  light.  On  the  other  side,  to  the  right, 
was  a  haystack,  and  close  by  this  haystack  seemed  the  most 
eligible  place  for  clearing  the  obstacle.  Now,  since  the 
banker  had  visited  this  place  a  deep  ditch,  that  served  as  a 
drain,  had  been  dug  at  the  opposite  base  of  the  hedge,  of 
which  neither  horse  nor  man  was  aware,  so  that  the  leap  was 
far  more  perilous  than  was  anticipated.  Unconscious  of  this 
additional  obstacle,  the  rider  set  off  in  a  canter.  The  banker 
was  high  in  air,  his  loins  bent  back,  his  rein  slackened,  his 
right  hand  raised  knowingly,  when  the  horse  took  fright  at 
an  object  crouched  by  the  haystack,  swerved,  plunged  midway 
into  the  ditch,  and  pitched  its  rider  two  or  three  yards  over 
its  head.  The  banker  recovered  himself  sooner  than  might 
have  been  expected;  and  finding  himself,  though  bruised  and 
shaken,  still  whole  and  sound,  hastened  to  his  horse.  But 
the  poor  animal  had  not  fared  so  well  as  its  master,  and  its 
off-shoulder  was  either  put  out  or  dreadfully  sprained.  It  had 
scrambled  its  way  out  of  the  ditch,  and  there  it  stood,  discon- 
solate, by  the  hedge,  as  lame  as  one  of  the  trees  that,  at  ir- 
regular intervals,  broke  the  symmetry  of  the  barrier.  On 
ascertaining  the  extent  of  his  misfortune  the  banker  became 
seriously  uneasy;  the  rain  increased,  he  was  several  miles 
yet  from  home,  he  was  in  the  midst  of  houseless  fields,  with 
another  leap  before  him, —  the  leap  he  had  just  passed  be- 
hind,—  and  no  other  egress  that  he  knew  of  into  the  main 
road.  While  these  thoughts  passed  through  his  brain,  he 
became  suddenly  aware  that  he  was  not  alone.  The  dark  ob- 
ject that  had  frightened  his  horse  rose  slowly  from  the  snug 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  183 

corner  it  had  occupied  by  the  haystack,  and  a  gruff  voice, 
that  made  the  banker  thrill  to  the  marrow  of  his  bones,  cried : 
*'  Holla,  who  the  devil  are  you?  " 

Lame  as  his  horse  was,  the  banker  instantly  put  his  foot 
into  the  stirrup;  but  before  he  could  mount,  a  heavy  gripe 
was  laid  on  his  shoulder,  and  turning  round  with  as  much 
fierceness  as  he  could  assume,  he  saw  —  what  the  tone  of  the 
voice  had  already  led  him  to  forebode  —  the  ill-omened  and 
eut-throat  features  of  Luke  Darvil. 

"Ha!  ha!  my  old  annuitant,  my  clever  feelosofer,  jolly  old 
boy,  how  are  you?  Give  us  a  fist.  Who  would  have  thought 
to  meet  you  on  a  rainy  night,  by  a  lone  haystack,  with  a  deep 
ditch  on  one  side,  and  no  chimney-pot  within  sight?  Why, 
old  fellow,  I,  Luke  Darvil, —  I,  the  vagabond,  I,  whom  you 
would  have  sent  to  the  treadmill  for  being  poor  and  calling 
on  my  own  daughter, —  I  am  as  rich  as  you  are  here,  and  as 
great,  and  as  strong,  and  as  powerful !  " 

And  while  he  spoke,  Darvil,  who  was  really  an  under-sized 
man,  seemed  to  swell  and  dilate  till  he  appeared  half  a  head 
taller  than  the  shrinking  banker,  who  was  five  feet  eleven 
inches  without  his  shoes. 

"E — hem!"  said  the  rich  man,  clearing  his  throat,  which 
seemed  to  him  uncommonly  husky,  ''I  do  not  know  whether  I 
insulted  your  poverty,  my  dear  Mr.  Darvil, —  1  hope  not. 
But  this  is  hardly  a  time  for  talking;  pray  let  me  mount, 
and—" 

"  Not  a  time  for  talking !  "  interrupted  Darvil,  angrily ; 
•'it's  just  the  time,  to  my  mind.  Let  me  consider,  —  ay,  I 
told  you  that  whenever  we  met  by  the  roadside,  it  would  be 
my  turn  to  have  the  best  of  the  argufying." 

"1  dare  say,  I  dare  say,  my  good  fellow." 

"'Fellow'  not  me!  I  won't  be  fellowed  now.  I  say  I  have 
the  best  of  it  here;  man  to  man,  I  am  your  match." 

"But  why  quarrel  with  me?"  said  the  banker,  coaxingly; 
"  I  never  meant  you  harm,  and  I  am  sure  you  cannot  mean  me 
harm." 

"No!  And  why,"  asked  Darvil,  coolly,  "why  do  you  think 
I  can  mean  you  no  harm?" 


184  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

"Because  your  annuity  depends  on  me." 

"  Shrewdly  put !  We  '11  argufy  that  point.  My  life  is  a  bad 
one, — not  worth  more  than  a  year's  purchase;  now,  suppose 
you  have  more  than  forty  pounds  about  you,  it  may  be  better 
worth  my  while  to  draw  my  knife  across  your  gullet  than  to 
wait  for  the  quarter-day's  ten  pounds  a  time.  You  see,  it 's 
all  a  matter  of  calculation,  my  dear  Mr.  What's-your-name !  " 

"But,"  replied  the  banker,  and  his  teeth  began  to  chatter, 
"I  have  not  forty  pounds  about  me." 

"How  do  I  know  that?  You  say  so.  Well,  in  the  town 
yonder  your  word  goes  for  more  than  mine ;  I  never  gainsaid 
you  when  you  put  that  to  me,  did  I?  But  here,  by  the  hay- 
stack, my  word  is  better  than  yours ;  and  if  I  say  you  must 
and  shall  have  forty  pounds  about  you,  let 's  see  whether  you 
dare  contradict  me." 

"Look  you,  Darvil,"  said  the  banker,  summoning  up  all 
his  energy  and  intellect,  for  his  moral  power  began  now  to 
back  his  physical  cowardice,  and  he  spoke  calmly,  and  even 
bravely,  though  his  heart  throbbed  aloud  against  his  breast, 
and  you  might  have  knocked  him  down  with  a  feather,  "  the 
London  runners  are  even  now  hot  after  you." 

"Ha!  you  lie!" 

"  Upon  my  honour  I  speak  the  truth ;  I  heard  the  news  last 

evening.     They  tracked  you  to  C ;  they  tracked  you  out 

of  the  town ;  a  word  from  me  would  have  given  you  into  their 
hands.  I  said  nothing, — you  are  safe;  you  may  yet  escape. 
I  will  even  help  you  to  fly  the  country,  and  live  out  your  nat- 
ural date  of  years  secure  and  in  peace." 

"You  did  not  say  that  the  other  day  in  the  snug  drawing- 
room;  you  see  I  have  the  best  of  it  now, —  own  that." 

"I  do,"  said  the  banker. 

Darvil  chuckled,  and  rubbed  his  hands. 

The  man  of  wealth  once  more  felt  his  importance,  and  went 
on.  "This  is  one  side  of  the  question.  On  the  other,  sup- 
pose you  rob  and  murder  me,  do  you  think  my  death  will 
lessen  the  heat  of  the  pursuit  against  you?  The  whole  coun- 
try will  be  in  arms,  and  before  forty-eight  hours  are  over  you 
will  be  hunted  down  like  a  mad  dog." 


ERNf:ST   MALTRAVERS.  185 

Darvil  was  silent,  as  if  in  thought;  and  after  a  pause  re- 
plied: "Well,  you  are  a  'cute  one  after  all.  What  have  you 
got  about  you?  You  know  you  drove  a  hard  bargain  the 
other  day, —  now  it's  my  market:  fustian  has  riz, —  kersey 
has  fell." 

"All  I  have  about  me  shall  be  yours,"  said  the  banker, 
eagerly. 

"Give  it  me,  then." 

"  There ! "  said  the  banker,  placing  his  purse  and  pocket- 
book  into  Darvil's  hands. 

"And  the  watch?" 

"The  watch?     Well,  there!" 

"What's  that?" 

The  banker's  senses  were  sharpened  by  fear,  but  they  were 
not  so  sharp  as  those  of  Darvil;  he  heard  nothing  but  the  rain 
pattering  on  the  leaves,  and  the  rush  of  water  in  the  ditch  at 
hand.  Darvil  stooped  and  listened  till,  raising  himself  again, 
with  a  deep-drawn  breath  he  said :  "  I  think  there  are  rats  in 
the  haystack;  they  will  be  running  over  me  in  my  sleep:  but 
they  are  playful  creturs,  and  I  like  'em.  And  now,  my  dear 
sir,  I  am  afraid  I  must  put  an  end  to  you!  " 

"Good  heavens,  what  do  you  mean?     How?" 

"Man,  there  is  another  world!  "  quoth  the  ruffian,  mimick- 
ing the  banker's  solemn  tone  in  their  former  interview.  "  So 
much  the  better  for  you!  In  that  world  they  don't  tell 
tales." 

"I  swear  I  will  never  betray  you." 

"You  do?     Swear  it,  then." 

"By  all  my  hopes  of  earth  and  heaven!  " 

"  What  a  d — d  coward  you  be !  "  said  Darvil,  laughing 
scornfully.  "Go,  —  you  are  safe.  I  am  in  good  humour  with 
myself  again.  I  crow  over  you,  for  no  man  can  make  me 
tremble ;  and  villain  as  you  think  me,  while  you  fear  me  you 
cannot  despise, —  you  respect  me.     Go,  I  say,  go." 

The  banker  was  about  to  obey  when  suddenly  from  the  hay- 
stack a  broad  red  light  streamed  upon  the  pair,  and  the  next 
moment  Darvil  was  seized  from  behind  and  struggling  in  the 
gripe  of  a  man  nearly  as  powerful  as  himself.     The  light, 


186  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

which  came  from  a  dark-lantern  placed  on  the  ground,  revealed 
the  forms  of  a  peasant  in  a  smock-frock  and  two  stout-built 
stalwart  men  armed  with  pistols,  besides  the  one  engaged 
with  Darvil. 

The  whole  of  this  scene  was  brought  as  by  the  trick  of  the 
stage,  as  by  a  flash  of  lightning,  as  by  the  change  of  a  show- 
man's phantasmagoria,  before  the  astonished  eyes  of  the 
banker.  He  stood  arrested  and  spell-bound,  his  hand  on  his 
bridle,  his  foot  on  his  stirrup.  A  moment  more,  and  Darvil 
had  dashed  his  antagonist  on  the  ground;  he  stood  at  a  little 
distance,  his  face  reddened  by  the  glare  of  the  lantern,  and 
fronting  his  assailants,  that  fiercest  of  all  beasts, —  a  desper- 
ate man  at  bay !  He  had  already  succeeded  in  drawing  forth 
his  pistols,  and  he  held  one  in  each  hand,  his  eyes  flashing 
from  beneath  his  bent  brows,  and  turning  quickly  from  foe  to 
foe !  At  last  those  terrible  eyes  rested  on  the  late  reluctant 
companion  of  his  solitude. 

"So  you  then  betrayed  me,"  he  said,  very  slowly,  and  di- 
rected his  pistol  to  the  head  of  the  dismounted  horseman. 

"No,  no!  "  cried  one  of  the  officers,  for  such  were  Darvil's 
assailants;  "fire  away  in  this  direction,  my  hearty, —  we're 
paid  for  it.     The  gentleman  knew  nothing  at  all  about  it." 

"Nothing,  by  G — !"  cried  the  banker,  startled  out  of  his 
sanctity. 

"Then  I  shall  keep  my  shot,"  said  Darvil;  "and  mind,  the 
first  who  approaches  me  is  a  dead  man." 

It  so  happened  that  the  robber  and  the  officers  were  beyond 
the  distance  which  allows  sure  mark  for  a  pistol-shot,  and 
each  party  felt  the  necessity  of  caution. 

"Your  time  is  up,  my  swell  cove!"  cried  the  head  of  the 
detachment;  "you  have  had  your  swing,  and  a  long  one  it 
seems  to  have  been, — you  must  now  give  in.  Throw  down 
your  barkers,  or  we  must  make  mutton  of  you,  and  rob  the 
gallows." 

Darvil  did  not  reply,  and  the  officers,  accustomed  to  hold 
life  cheap,  moved  on  towards  him,  their  pistols  cocked  and 
levelled. 

Darvil  fired,  —  one  of  the  men  staggered  and  fell.     With  a 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  187 

kind  of  instinct,  Darvil  had  singled  out  the  one  with  whom 
he  had  before  wrestled  for  life.  The  ruffian  waited  not  for 
the  others,  —  he  turned  and  fled  along  the  fields. 

"Zounds,  he  is  off!"  cried  the  other  two,  and  they  rushed 
after  him  in  pursuit.  A  pause,  a  shot,  another,  an  oath,  a 
groan,  and  all  was  still. 

"  It 's  all  up  with  him  now !  "  said  one  of  the  runners,  in  the 
distance;  "he  dies  game." 

At  these  words,  the  peasant,  who  had  before  skulked  behind 
tlie  haystack,  seized  the  lantern  from  the  ground  and  ran  to 
the  spot.     The  banker  involuntarily  followed. 

There  lay  Luke  Darvil  on  the  grass, —  still  living,  but  a 
horrible  and  ghastly  spectacle.  One  ball  had  pierced  his 
breast,  another  had  shot  away  his  jaw.  His  eyes  rolled  fear- 
fully, and  he  tore  up  the  grass  with  his  hands. 

The  officers  looked  coldly  on.  "He  was  a  clever  fellow!  " 
said  one. 

"And  has  given  us  much  trouble,"  said  the  other;  "let  us 
see  to  Will." 

"But  he  's  not  dead  yet,"  said  the  banker,  shuddering. 

"Sir,  he  cannot  live  a  minute." 

Darvil  raised  himself  bolt  upright,  shook  his  clenched  fist 
at  his  conquerors,  and  a  fearful  gurgling  howl,  which  the  na- 
ture of  his  wounds  did  not  allow  him  to  syllable  into  a  curse, 
came  from  his  breast;  with  that  he  fell  flat  on  his  back  —  a 
corpse. 

"I  am  afraid,  sir,"  said  the  elder  officer,  turning  away, 
"you  had  a  narrow  escape;  but  how  came  you  here?  " 

"Rather,  how  came  you  here?" 

"Honest  Hodge  there,  with  the  lantern,  had  marked  the 
fellow  skulk  behind  the  haystack  when  he  himself  was  going 
out  to  snare  rabbits.  He  had  seen  our  advertisement  of 
Watts's  person,  and  knew  that  we  were  then  at  a  public-house 
some  miles  off.  He  came  to  us,  conducted  us  to  the  spot;  we 
heard  voices,  showed  up  the  glim,  and  saw  our  man.  Hodge, 
you  are  a  good  subject,  and  love  justice." 

"  Yees,  but  I  shall  have  the  rewourd,"  said  Hodge,  showing 
his  teeth. 


188  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

"Talk  o'  that  by  and  by,"  said  the  officer.  "Will,  how  are 
you,  man?" 

"Bad,"  groaned  the  poor  runner;  and  a  rush  of  blood  from 
the  lips  followed  the  groan. 

It  was  many  days  before  the  ex-member  for  C suffi- 
ciently recovered  the  tone  of  his  mind  to  ^think  further  of 
Alice;  when  he  did,  it  was  with  great  satisfaction  that  he  re- 
flected that  Darvil  was  no  more,  and  that  the  deceased  ruffian 
was  only  known  to  the  neighbourhood  by  the  name  of  Peter 
Watts. 


BOOK    V. 


'O  novcTOiroihs,  fvdaS'  'livTruva^  Kiirat, 
El  txiv  TTOvriphs,  nv  iror^pxi"  ^V  Tv/x^q/ 
£(  S'  icrffl  Kfjrjyvos  re  nal  irapa  xpl^Tfci' 
©apaiuiv  Ka6i^€u'  Kav  deKrjs  diro/Spilo)/. 

Theocritus  :  Epig.  in  Hippon. 

PARODY. 

"  My  hero,  turned  author,  lies  mute  in  this  section. 
You  may  pass  by  the  place  if  yon  're  bored  by  reflection ; 
But  if  honest  enough  to  be  fond  of  the  Muse, 
Stay,  and  read  where  you  're  able,  and  sleep  where  yon  choose. 


CHAPTER   I. 

Mt  genius  spreads  her  wing, 
And  flies  where  Britain  courts  the  western  spring. 

Pride  in  their  port,  defiance  in  their  eye, 
I  see  the  lords  of  human  kind  pass  by. 
Intent  on  high  designs.  —  Goldsmith. 

I  HAVE  no  respect  for  the  Englishman  who  re-enters  London 
after  long  residence  abroad  without  a  pulse  that  beats  quick 
and  a  heart  that  heaves  high.  The  public  buildings  are  few, 
and  for  the  most  part  mean ;  the  monuments  of  antiquity  not 
comparable  to  those  which  the  pettiest  town  in  Italy  can  boast 
of ;  the  palaces  are  sad  rubbish ;  the  houses  of  our  peers  and 
princes  are  shabby  and  shapeless  heaps  of  brick.  But  what 
of  all  this?  The  spirit  of  London  is  in  her  thoroughfares, — 
her  population!  What  wealth,  what  cleanliness,  what  order, 
what  animation!  How  majestic,  and  yet  how  vivid  is  the  life 
that  runs   through  her  myriad  veins!     How,   as  the   lamps 


190  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

blaze  upon  you  at  night,  and  street  after  street  glides  by  your 
wheels,  each  so  regular  in  its  symmetry,  so  equal  in  its  civil- 
ization,—  how  all  speak  of  the  City  of  Freemen! 

Yes,  Maltravers  felt  his  heart  swell  within  him  as  the  post- 
horses  whirled  on  his  dingy  carriage  over  Westminster  Bridge, 
along  Whitehall,  through  Regent  Street,  towards  one  of  the 
quiet  and  private-house-like  hotels  that  are  scattered  round 
the  neighbourhood  of  Grosvenor  Square. 

Ernest's  arrival  had  been  expected.  He  had  written  from 
Paris  to  Cleveland  to  announce  it,  and  Cleveland  had  in  reply 
informed  him  that  he  had  engaged  aj)artments  for  him  at 
Mivart's.  The  smiling  waiters  ushered  him  into  a  spacious 
and  well-aired  room,  the  armchair  was  already  wheeled  by 
the  fire,  a  score  or  so  of  letters  strewed  the  table,  together 
Avith  two  of  the  evening  papers.  And  how  eloquently  of  busy 
England  do  those  evening  papers  speak!  A  stranger  might 
have  felt  that  he  wanted  no  friend  to  welcome  him, —  the 
whole  room  smiled  on  him  a  welcome. 

Maltravers  ordered  his  dinner  and  opened  his  letters.  They 
were  of  no  importance:  one  from  his  steward,  one  from  his 
banker,  another  about  the  county  races,  a  fourth  from  a  man 
he  had  never  heard  of,  requesting  the  vote  and  powerful  in- 
terest of  Mr.  Maltravers  for  the  county  of  B ,  should  the 

rumour  of  a  dissolution  be  verified;  the  unknown  candidate 
referred  Mr.  Maltravers  to  his  "  well-known  public  character." 
From  these  epistles  Ernest  turned  impatiently,  and  perceived 
a  little  three-cornered  note  which  had  hitherto  escaped  his 
attention.  It  was  from  Cleveland,  intimating  that  he  was  in 
town,  that  his  health  still  precluded  his  going  out,  but  that 
he  trusted  to  see  his  dear  Ernest  as  soon  as  he  arrived. 

Maltravers  was  delighted  at  the  prospect  of  passing  his 
evening  so  agreeably;  he  soon  despatched  his  dinner  and  his 
newspapers,  and  walked  in  the  brilliant  lamjjlight  of  a  clear, 
frosty  evening  of  early  December  in  London  to  his  friend's 
house  in  Curzon  Street, —  a  small  house,  bachelor-like  and 
unpretending;  for  Cleveland  spent  his  moderate  though  easy 
fortune  almost  entirely  at  his  country  villa.  The  familiar 
face  of  the  old  valet  greeted  Ernest  at  the  door,  and  he  only 


ERXEST   MALTRAVERS.  191 

paused  to  hear  that  his  guardian  was  nearly  recovered  to  his 
usual  health,  ere  he  was  m  the  cheerful  drawing-room,  and  — 
since  Englishmen  do  not  embrace  —  returning  the  cordial 
gripe  of  the  kindly  Cleveland. 

"Well,  my  dear  Ernest,"  said  Cleveland,  after  they  had 
gone  through  the  preliminary  round  of  questions  and  answers, 
"here  you  are  at  last,  Heaven  be  praised!  And  how  well 
you  are  looking;  how  much  you  are  improved!  It  is  an  ex- 
cellent period  of  the  year  for  your  debut  in  London.  I  shall 
have  time  to  make  you  intimate  with  people  before  the  whirl 
of  'the  season'  commences." 

"  Why,  I  thought  of  going  to  Burleigh,  my  country  place. 
I  have  not  seen  it  since  1  was  a  child." 

"No,  no;  you  have  had  solitude  enough  at  Como,  if  I  may 
trust  to  your  letter.  You  must  now  mix  with  the  great  Lon- 
don world;  and  you  will  enjoy  Burleigh  the  more  in  the 
summer." 

"  I  fancy  this  great  London  world  will  give  me  very  little 
pleasure;  it  may  be  pleasant  enough  to  young  men  just  let 
loose  from  college,  but  your  crowded  ballrooms  and  monot- 
onous clubs  will  be  wearisome  to  one  who  has  grown  fastid- 
ious before  his  time.  J'ai  vecu  beaucoup  dans  peu  d'annees. 
I  have  drawn  in  youth  too  much  upon  the  capital  of  existence 
to  be  highly  delighted  with  the  ostentatious  parsimony  with 
which  our  great  men  economize  pleasure." 

"Don't  judge  before  you  have  gone  through  the  trial,"  said 
Cleveland;  "there  is  something  in  the  opulent  splendour,  the 
thoroughly  sustained  magnificence,  with  which  the  leaders  of 
English  fashion  conduct  even  the  most  insipid  amusements, 
that  IS  above  contempt.  Besides,  you  need  not  necessarily 
live  with  the  butterflies.  There  are  plenty  of  bees  that  will 
be  very  happy  to  make  your  acquaintance.  Add  to  this,  my 
dear  Ernest,  the  pleasure  of  being  made  of  —  of  being  of  im- 
portance in  your  own  country;  for  you  are  young,  well-born, 
and  sufficiently  handsome  to  be  an  object  of  interest  to  moth- 
ers and  to  daughters;  while  your  name  and  property  and  in- 
terest will  make  you  courted  by  men  who  want  to  borrow  your 
money  and  obtain  your  influence  in  your  county.     Ko,  Mai- 


192  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

travers,  stay  in  London, —  amuse  yourself  your  first  year,  and 
decide  on  your  occupation  and  career  the  next;  but  recon- 
noitre before  you  give  battle." 

Maltravers  was  not  ill-pleased  to  follow  his  friend's  ad- 
vice, since  by  so  doing  he  obtained  his  friend's  guidance  and 
society.  Moreover,  he  deemed  it  wise  and  rational  to  see, 
face  to  face,  the  eminent  men  in  England  with  whom,  if  he 
fulfilled  his  promise  to  De  Montaigne,  he  was  to  run  the  race 
of  honourable  rivalry.  Accordingly,  he  consented  to  Cleve- 
land's propositions. 

"And  have  you,"  said  he,  hesitating,  as  he  loitered  by  the 
door  after  the  stroke  of  twelve  had  warned  him  to  take  his 
leave, —  "have  you  never  heard  anything  of  my  —  my  —  the 
unfortunate  Alice  Darvil?" 

"  Who?  Oh!  that  poor  young  woman, —  I  remember.  Not 
a  syllable." 

Maltravers  sighed  deeply  and  departed. 


CHAPTER   II. 

Je  trouve  que  c'est  une  folie  de  vouloir  e'tudier  le  monde  en  simple  spec- 
tateur.  .  .  .  Dans  I'ecole  du  monde,  comme  dans  cette  de  I'amour,  il  faut 
commencer  par  pratiquer  ce  qu'on  veut  appreudre.^  —  Rousseau. 

Ernest  Maltravers  was  now  fairly  launched  upon  the 
wide  ocean  of  London.  Amongst  his  other  property  was  a 
house  in  Seamore  Place, — that  quiet,  yet  central  street,  which 
enjoys  the  air  without  the  dust  of  the  Park.  It  had  been 
hitherto  let,  and  the  tenant  now  quitting  very  opportunely, 
Maltravers  was  delighted  to  secure  so  pleasant  a  residence; 
for  he  was  still  romantic  enough  to  desire  to  look  out  upon 
trees  and  verdure  rather  than  brick  houses.  He  indulged 
only  in  two  other  luxuries :  his  love  of  music  tempted  him  to 

1  "  I  find  that  it  is  a  folly  to  wish  to  study  the  world  like  a  simple  specta- 
tor. ...  In  the  school  of  the  world,  as  in  that  of  love,  it  is  necessary  to  begin 
by  practising  what  we  wish  to  learn." 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  193 

an  opera-box,  and  he  had  that  English  feeling  which  prides 
itself  in  the  possession  of  beautiful  horses,  —  a  feeling  that 
enticed  him  into  an  extravagance  on  this  head  that  baffled  the 
competition  and  excited  the  envy  of  much  richer  men.  But 
four  thousand  a  year  goes  a  great  way  with  a  single  man  who 
does  not  gamble,  and  is  too  philosophical  to  make  superflu- 
ities wants. 

The  world  doubled  his  income,  magnified  his  old  country- 
seat  into  a  superb  chateau,  and  discovered  that  his  elder 
brother,  who  was  only  three  or  four  years  older  than  himself, 
had  no  children.  The  world  was  very  courteous  to  Ernest 
JNIaltravers. 

It  was,  as  Cleveland  said,  just  at  that  time  of  year  when 
people  are  at  leisure  to  make  new  acquaintances.  A  few  only 
of  the  most  difficult  houses  in  town  were  open,  and  their 
doors  were  cheerfully  expanded  to  the  accomplished  ward  of 
the  popular  Cleveland.  Authors  and  statesmen  and  orators 
and  philosophers,  —  to  all  he  was  presented,  all  seemed 
pleased  with  him,  and  Ernest  became  the  fashion  before  he 
was  conscious  of  the  distinction.  But  he  had  rightly  fore- 
l)oded.  He  had  commenced  life  too  soon;  he  was  disap- 
pointed, he  found  some  persons  he  could  admire,  some  whom 
he  could  like,  but  none  with  whom  he  could  grow  intimate, 
or  for  whom  he  could  feel  an  interest.  Neither  his  heart  nor 
his  imagination  was  touched;  all  appeared  to  him  like  artifi- 
cial machines;  he  was  discontented  with  things  like  life,  but 
in  which  something  or  other  was  wanting.  He  more  than 
ever  recalled  the  brilliant  graces  of  Valerie  de  Ventadour, 
which  had  thrown  a  charm  over  the  most  frivolous  circles; 
he  even  missed  the  perverse  and  fantastic  vanity  of  Castruc- 
eio.  The  mediocre  poet  seemed  to  him  at  least  less  mediocre 
than  the  worldlings  about  him.  Nay,  even  the  selfish  good 
spirits  and  dry  shrewdness  of  Lnmley  Ferrers  would  have 
been  an  acceptable  change  to  the  dull  polish  and  unrevealed 
egotism  of  jealous  wits  and  party  politicians.  "If  these  are 
the  flowers  of  the  parterre,  what  must  be  the  weeds?"  said 
Maltravers  to  himself,  returning  from  a  party  at  which  he 
had  met  half  a  score  of  the  most  orthodox  lions. 

13 


194  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

He  began  to  feel  the  aching  pain  of  satiety. 

But  the  winter  glided  away,  the  season  commenced,  and 
Maltravers  was  whirled  on  with  the  rest  into  the  bubbling 
vortex. 


CHAPTER   III. 

And  crowds  commencing  mere  vexation, 
Retirement  sent  its  invitation.  —  Shenstone. 

The  tench  no  doubt  considers  the  pond  in  which  he  lives  as 
the  Great  World.  There  is  no  place,  however  stagnant,  which 
is  not  the  Great  World  to  the  creatures  that  move  about  in  it. 
People  who  have  lived  all  their  lives  in  a  village  still  talk  of 
the  world  as  if  they  had  ever  seen  it!  An  old  woman  in  a 
hovel  does  not  put  her  nose  out  of  her  door  on  a  Sunday  with- 
out thinking  she  is  going  amongst  the  pomps  and  vanities  of 
the  Great  World.  Ergo,  the  Great  World  is  to  all  of  us  the 
little  circle  in  which  we  live.  But  as  fine  people  set  the 
fashion,  so  the  circle  of  fine  people  is  called  the  Great  World 
par  excellence.  Now  this  Great  World  is  not  a  bad  thing 
when  we  thoroughly  understand  it;  and  the  London  Great 
World  is  at  least  as  good  as  any  other.  But  then  we  scarcely 
do  understand  that  or  anything  else  in  our  beaux  jours, — 
which,  if  they  are  sometimes  the  most  exquisite,  are  also  often 
the  most  melancholy  and  the  most  wasted  portion  of  our  life. 
Maltravers  had  not  yet  found  out  either  the  set  that  pleased 
him  or  the  species  of  amusement  that  really  amused.  There- 
fore he  drifted  on  and  about  the  vast  whirlpool,  making 
plenty  of  friends,  going  to  balls  and  dinners,  and  bored  with 
both,  as  men  are  who  have  no  object  in  society.  Now,  the 
way  society  is  enjoyed  is  to  have  a  pursuit,  a  metier  of  some 
kind,  and  then  to  go  into  the  world,  either  to  make  the  indi- 
vidual object  a  social  pleasure,  or  to  obtain  a  reprieve  from 
some  toilsome  avocation.     Thus,  if  you  are  a  politician,  poli- 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS.  195 

tics  at  once  make  an  object  in  j^our  closet,  and  a  social  tie  be- 
tween others  and  yourself  when  you  are  in  the  world.  The 
same  may  be  said  of  literature,  though  in  a  less  degree,  and 
though,  as  fewer  persons  care  about  literature  than  politics, 
your  companions  must  be  more  select.  If  you  are  very  young, 
you  are  fond  of  dancing;  if  you  are  very  profligate,  perhaps 
you  are  fond  of  flirtations  with  your  friend's  wife.  These 
last  are  objects  in  their  way,  but  they  don't  last  long,  and, 
even  with  the  most  frivolous,  are  not  occupations  that  satisfy 
the  whole  mind  and  heart,  in  which  there  is  generally  an  as- 
piration after  something  useful.  It  is  not  vanity  alone  that 
makes  a  man  of  the  -mode,  invent  a  new  bit,  or  give  his  name 
to  a  new  kind  of  carriage,  — it  is  the  influence  of  that  mystic 
yearning  after  utility  which  is  one  of  the  master-ties  between 
the  individual  and  the  species. 

Mai tra vers  was  not  happy,  —  that  is  a  lot  common  enough; 
but  he  was  not  amused, — and  that  is  a  sentence  more  insup- 
portable. He  lost  a  great  part  of  his  sympathy  with  Cleve- 
land, for  when  a  man  is  not  amused,  he  feels  an  involuntary 
contempt  for  those  who  are.  He  fancies  they  are  pleased 
with  trifles  which  his  superior  wisdom  is  compelled  to  dis- 
dain. Cleveland  was  of  that  age  when  we  generally  grow 
social ;  for  by  being  rubbed  long  and  often  against  the  great 
loadstone  of  society,  we  obtain,  in  a  thoiisand  little  minute 
points,  an  attraction  in  common  with  our  fellows.  Their 
petty  sorrows  and  small  joys,  their  objects  of  interest  or  em- 
ployment, at  some  time  or  other  have  been  ours.  We  gather 
up  a  vast  collection  of  moral  and  mental  farthings  of  ex- 
change, and  we  scarcely  find  any  intellect  too  poor  but  what 
we  can  deal  with  it  in  some  way.  But  in  youth  we  are  ego- 
tists and  sentimentalists,  and  Maltravers  belonged  to  the  fra- 
ternity who  employ  — 

"  The  heart  in  passion  and  the  head  in  rhymes." 

At  length,  just  when  London  begins  to  grow  most  pleasant, 
when  flirtations  become  tender,  and  water-parties  numerous, 
when  birds  sing  in  the  groves  of  Richmond,  and  whitebait 
refresh  the  statesman  by  the  shores  of  Greenwich, —  Maltrav- 


196  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

ers  abruptly  fled  from  the  gay  metropolis,  and  arrived,  one 
lovely  evening  in  July,  at  his  own  ivy-grown  porch  of 
Burleigh. 

What  a  soft,  fresh,  delicious  evening  it  was!  He  had 
quitted  his  carriage  at  the  lodge,  and  followed  it  across  the 
small  but  picturesque  park  alone  and  on  foot.  He  had  not 
seen  the  place  since  childhood;  he  had  quite  forgotten  its 
aspect.  He  now  wondered  how  he  could  have  lived  anywhere 
else.  The  trees  did  not  stand  in  stately  avenues,  nor  did  the 
antlers  of  the  deer  wave  above  the  sombre  fern;  it  was  not 
the  domain  of  a  grand  seigneur,  but  of  an  old,  long-descended 
English  squire.  Antiquity  spoke  in  the  moss-grown  palings, 
in  the  shadowy  groves,  in  the  sharp  gable-ends  and  heavy 
mullions  of  the  house  as  it  now  came  in  view  at  the  base  of  a 
hill  covered  with  wood,  and  partially  veiled  by  the  shrubs  of 
the  neglected  pleasure-ground,  separated  from  the  park  by  the 
invisible  ha-ha.  There,  gleamed  in  the  twilight  the  watery 
face  of  the  oblong  fish-pool,  with  its  old-fashioned  willows  at 
each  corner;  there,  gray  and  quaint,  was  the  monastic  dial; 
and  there  was  the  long  terrace  walk,  with  discoloured  and 
broken  vases,  now  filled  with  the  orange  or  the  aloe,  which, 
in  honour  of  his  master's  arrival,  the  gardener  had  extracted 
from  the  dilapidated  greenhouse.  The  very  evidence  of  ne- 
glect around,  the  very  weeds  and  grass  on  the  half-obliterated 
road,  touched  Maltravers  with  a  sort  of  pitying  and  remorse- 
ful affection  for  his  calm  and  sequestered  residence.  And  it 
was  not  with  his  usual  proud  step  and  erect  crest  that  he 
passed  from  the  porch  to  the  solitary  library  through  a  line 
of  his  servants ;  the  two  or  three  old  retainers  belonging  to 
the  place  were  utterly  unfamiliar  to  him,  and  they  had  no 
smile  for  their  stranger  lord. 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  197 


CHAPTER   IV. 

Lucian.  He  that  is  born  to  be  a  man,  neither  should  nor  can  be  anything 
nobler,  greater,  and  better  than  a  man. 

Pererp-ine.  But,  good  Lucian,  for  the  very  reason  that  he  may  not  become 
less  than  a  man,  he  should  be  always  striving  to  be  more.  —  Wieland  :  Pere- 
grinus  Proteus. 

It  was  two  years  from  the  date  of  the  last  chapter  before 
Maltravers  again  appeared  in  general  society.  These  two 
years  had  sufficed  to  produce  a  revolution  in  his  fate.  Ernest 
Maltravers  had  lost  the  happy  rights  of  the  private  individual ; 
he  had  given  himself  to  the  Public;  he  had  surrendered  his 
name  to  men's  tongues,  and  was  a  thing  that  all  had  a  right 
to  praise,  to  blame,  to  scrutinize,  to  spy.  Ernest  Maltravers 
had  become  an  author. 

Let  no  man  tempt  Gods  and  Columns  without  weighing 
well  the  consequences  of  his  experiment.  He  who  publishes 
a  book  attended  with  a  moderate  success,  passes  a  mighty 
barrier.  He  will  often  look  back  with  a  sigh  of  regret  at  the 
land  he  has  left  forever.  The  beautiful  and  decent  obscurity 
of  hearth  and  home  is  gone.  He  can  no  longer  feel  the  just 
indignation  of  manly  pride  when  he  finds  himself  ridiculed  or 
reviled.  He  has  parted  with  the  shadow  of  his  life.  His 
motives  may  be  misrepresented,  his  character  belied;  his 
manners,  his  person,  his  dress,  the  "very  trick  of  his  walk" 
are  all  fair  food  for  the  cavil  and  the  caricature.  He  can 
never  go  back,  he  cannot  even  pause ;  he  has  chosen  his  path, 
and  all  the  natural  feelings  that  make  the  nerve  and  muscle 
of  the  active  being,  urge  him  to  proceed.  To  stop  short  is 
to  fail.  He  has  told  the  world  that  he  will  make  a  name; 
and  he  must  be  set  down  as  a  pretender,  or  toil  on  till  the 
boast  be  fulfilled.  Yet  Maltravers  thought  nothing  of  all  this 
when,  intoxicated  with  his  own  dreams  and  aspirations,  he 
desired  to  make  a  world  his  confidant, —  when  from  the  living 


198  ERXEST   MALTRAVERS. 

Kature,  and  the  lore  of  books,  and  the  mingled  result  of  in- 
ward study  and  external  observation,  he  sought  to  draw  forth 
something  that  might  interweave  his  name  with  the  pleasura- 
ble associations  of  his  kind.  His  easy  fortune  and  lonely 
state  gave  him  up  to  his  own  thoughts  and  contemplations ; 
they  suffused  his  mind  till  it  ran  over  upon  the  page  which 
makes  the  channel  that  connects  the  solitary  Fountain  with 
the  vast  Ocean  of  Human  Knowledge.  The  temperament  of 
Maltravers  was,  as  we  have  seen,  neither  irritable  nor  fearful. 
He  formed  himself,  as  a  sculptor  forms,  with  a  model  before 
his  eyes  and  an  ideal  in  his  heart.  He  endeavoured,  with 
labour  and  patience,  to  approach  nearer  and  nearer  with  everj' 
effort  to  the  standard  of  such  excellence  as  he  thought  might 
ultimately  be  attained  by  a  reasonable  ambition;  and  when, 
at  last,  his  judgment  was  satisfied,  he  surrendered  the  product 
with  a  tranquil  confidence  to  a  more  impartial  tribunal. 

His  first  work  was  successful;  perhaps  for  this  reason, — 
that  it  bore  the  stamp  of  the  Honest  and  the  Eeal.  He  did 
not  sit  down  to  report  of  what  he  had  never  seen,  to  dilate  on 
what  he  had  never  felt.  A  quiet  and  thoughtful  observer  of 
life,  his  descriptions  were  the  more  vivid  because  his  own 
first  impressions  were  not  yet  worn  away.  His  experience 
had  sunk  deep,  not  on  the  arid  surface  of  matured  age,  but 
in  the  fresh  soil  of  youthful  emotions.  Another  reason,  per- 
haps, that  obtained  success  for  his  essay  was  that  he  had  more 
varied  and  more  elaborate  knowledge  than  young  authors 
think  it  necessary  to  possess.  He  did  not,  like  Cesarini, 
attempt  to  make  a  show  of  words  upon  a  slender  capital  of 
ideas.  Whether  his  style  was  eloquent  or  homely,  it  was 
still  in  him  a  faithful  transcript  of  considered  and  digested 
thought.  A  third  reason  —  and  I  dwell  on  these  points,  not 
more  to  elucidate  the  career  of  Maltravers  than  as  hints  which 
may  be  useful  to  others  —  a  third  reason  why  Maltravers  ob- 
tained a  prompt  and  favourable  reception  from  the  public  was 
that  he  had  not  hackneyed  his  peculiarities  of  diction  and 
thought  in  that  worst  of  all  schools  for  the  literary  novice, 
—  the  columns  of  a  magazine.  Periodicals  form  an  excellent 
mode  of  communication  between  the  public  and  an  author  al- 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  199 

ready  established,  who  has  lost  the  charm  of  novelty,  but 
gained  the  weight  of  acknowledged  reputation,  and  who, 
either  upon  politics  or  criticism,  seeks  for  frequent  and  con- 
tinuous occasions  to  enforce  his  peculiar  theses  and  doctrines. 
But  upon  the  young  writer  this  mode  of  communication,  if  too 
long  continued,  operates  must  injuriously  both  as  to  his  fu- 
ture prospects  and  his  own  present  taste  and  style.  With  re- 
spect to  the  first,  it  familiarizes  the  i)ublic  to  his  mannerism 
(and  all  writers  worth  reading  have  mannerism)  in  a  form  to 
which  the  said  public  are  not  inclined  to  attach  much  weight. 
He  forestalls  in  a  few  months  what  ought  to  be  the  effect  of 
years;  namely,  the  wearying  a  world  soon  nauseated  with  the 
tovjours  perdrix.  With  respect  to  the  last,  it  induces  a  man 
to  write  for  momentary  effects;  to  study  a  false  smartness  of 
style  and  reasoning;  to  bound  his  ambition  of  durability  to 
the  last  day  of  the  month ;  to  expect  immediate  returns  for 
labour;  to  recoil  at  the  "hope  deferred"  of  serious  works  on 
which  judgment  is  slowly  formed.  The  man  of  talent  who 
begins  young  at  periodicals,  and  goes  on  long,  has  generally 
something  crude  and  stunted  about  both  his  compositions  and 
his  celebrity.  He  grows  the  oracle  of  small  coteries,  and  we 
can  rarely  get  out  of  the  impression  that  he  is  cockneyfied 
and  conventional.  Periodicals  sadly  mortgaged  the  claims 
that  Hazlitt  and  many  others  of  his  contemporaries  had  upon 
a  vast  reversionary  estate  of  Fame.  But  I  here  speak  too  po- 
litically: to  some,  the  res  augustce  domi  leave  no  option;  and, 
as  Aristotle  and  the  Greek  proverb  have  it,  we  cannot  carve 
out  all  things  with  the  knife  of  the  Delphic  cutler. 

The  second  work  that  Maltravers  put  forth,  at  an  interval 
of  eighteen  months  from  the  first,  was  one  of  a  graver  and 
higher  nature, —  it  served  to  confirm  his  reputation;  and  that 
is  success  enough  for  a  second  work,  which  is  usually  an  au- 
thor's//c/w  asinorum.  He  who,  after  a  triumphant  first  book, 
does  not  dissatisfy  the  public  with  a  second,  has  a  fair  chance 
of  gaining  a  fixed  station  in  literature.  But  now  commenced 
the  pains  and  perils  of  the  after-birth.  By  a  maiden  effort 
an  author  rarely  makes  enemies.  His  fellow-writers  are  not 
yet  prepared  to  consider  him  as  a  rival;   if  he  be  tolerably 


200  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

rich,  they  unconsciously  trust  that  he  will  not  become  a  reg- 
ular, or,  as  they  term  it,  "a  professional"  author:  he  did 
something  just  to  be  talked  of;  he  may  write  no  more,  or  his 
second  book  may  fail.  But  when  that  second  book  comes  out, 
and  does  not  fail,  they  begin  to  look  about  them :  envy  wakens, 
malice  begins,  and  all  the  old  school  —  gentlemen  who  have 
retired  on  their  pensions  of  renown  —  regard  him  as  an  in- 
truder; then  the  sneer,  then  the  frown,  the  caustic  irony,  the 
biting  review,  the  depreciating  praise.  The  novice  begins  to 
think  that  he  is  farther  from  the  goal  than  before  he  set  out 
upon  the  race. 

Maltravers  had  upon  the  whole  a  tolerably  happy  tempera- 
ment; but  he  was  a  very  proud  man,  and  he  had  the  nice  soul 
of  a  courageous,  honourable,  punctilious  gentleman.  He 
thought  it  singular  that  society  should  call  upon  him,  as  a 
gentleman,  to  shoot  his  best  friend  if  that  friend  affronted 
him  with  a  rude  word,  and  yet  that,  as  an  author,  every  fool 
and  liar  might,  with  perfect  impunity,  cover  reams  of  paper 
with  the  most  virulent  personal  abuse  of  him. 

It  was  one  evening  in  the  early  summer  that,  revolving  anx- 
ious and  doubtful  thoughts,  Ernest  sauntered  gloomily  along 
his  terrace, — 

"  And  watched  with  wistful  eyes  the  setting  sun,"  — 

when  he  perceived  a  dusty  travelling  carriage  whirled  along 
the  road  by  the  ha-ha,  and  a  hand  waved  in  recognition  from 
the  open  window.  His  guests  had  been  so  rare  and  his 
friends  were  so  few  that  Maltravers  could  not  conjecture  who 
was  his  intended  visitant.  His  brother,  he  knew,  was  in 
London.  Cleveland,  from  whom  he  had  that  day  heard,  was 
at  his  villa.  Ferrers  was  enjoying  himself  in  Vienna.  Who 
could  it  be?  We  may  say  of  solitude  what  we  please;  but 
after  two  years  of  solitude,  a  visitor  is  a  pleasurable  excite- 
ment. Maltravers  retraced  his  steps,  entered  his  house,  and 
Avas  just  in  time  to  find  himself  almost  in  the  arms  of  De 
Montaigne. 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  201 


CHAPTER   V. 

Quid  tam  dextro  pede  concipis  ut  te, 
Conatus  non  poeniteat,  votique  peracti  ?  ^  — Juvenal. 

"Yes,"  said  De  Montaigne,  "in  my  way  I  also  am  fulfilling 
my  destiny.  I  am  a  member  of  the  Chambre  de  Deputes,  and 
on  a  visit  to  England  upon  some  commercial  affairs.  I  found 
myself  in  your  neighbourhood,  and  of  course  could  not  resist 
the  temptation;  so  you  must  receive  me  as  your  guest  for 
some  days." 

"I  congratulate  you  cordially  on  your  senatorial  honours. 
I  have  already  heard  of  your  rising  name." 

"  I  return  the  congratulations  with  equal  warmth.  You  are 
bringing  my  prophecies  to  pass.  I  have  read  your  works 
with  increased  pride  at  our  friendship." 

Maltravers  sighed  slightly,  and  half  turned  away. 

"The  desire  of  distinction,"  said  he,  after  a  pause,  "grows 
upon  us  till  excitement  becomes  disease.  The  child  who  is 
born  with  the  mariner's  instinct  laughs  with  glee  when  his 
paper  bark  skims  the  wave  of  a  pool ;  by  and  by  nothing  will 
content  him  but  the  ship  and  the  ocean.  Like  the  child  is  the 
author." 

"I  am  pleased  with  your  simile,"  said  De  Montaigne,  smil- 
ing.    "Do  not  spoil  it,  but  go  on  with  your  argument." 

Maltravers  continued:  "Scarcely  do  we  win  the  applause 
of  a  moment  ere  we  summon  the  past  and  conjecture  the  fu- 
ture. Our  contemporaries  no  longer  suffice  for  competitors, 
our  age  for  the  court  to  pronounce  on  our  claims ;  we  call  up 
the  Dead  as  our  only  true  rivals,  we  appeal  to  Posterity  as 
our  sole  just  tribunal.  Is  this  vain  in  us?  Possibly.  Yet 
such  vanity  humbles.      'T  is  then  only  we  learn  all  the  differ- 

1  "  What !  under  sucli  happy  auspii-cs  do  you  conceive  tliat  you  may  not 
repent  of  your  endeavour  and  accomplished  wish  ?  " 


202  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

ence  between  Eeputation  and  Fame,— between  To-Day  and 
Immortality !  " 

"Do  you  think,"  replied  De  Montaigne,  "that  the  dead  did 
not  feel  the  same  when  they  first  trod  the  path  that  leads  to 
the  life  beyond  life?  Continue  to  cultivate  the  mind,  to 
sharpen  by  exercise  the  genius,  to  attempt  to  delight  or  to  in- 
struct your  race ;  and  even  supposing  you  fall  short  of  every 
model  you  set  before  you,— supposing  your  name  moulder 
with  your  dust,— still  you  will  have  passed  life  more  nobly 
than  the  unlaborious  herd.  Grant  that  you  win  not  that  glo- 
rious accident,  'a  name  below,'  how  can  you  tell  but  what 
you  may  have  fitted  yourself  for  high  destiny  and  employ  in 
the  world,  not  of  men,  but  of  spirits?  The  powers  of  the 
mind  are  things  that  cannot  be  less  immortal  than  the  mere 
sense  of  identity;  their  acquisitions  accompany  us  through 
the  Eternal  Progress ;  and  we  may  obtain  a  lower  or  a  higher 
grade  hereafter,  in  proportion  as  we  are  more  or  less  fitted  by 
the  exercise  of  our  intellect  to  comprehend  and  execute  the 
solemn  cagencies  of  God.  The  wise  man  is  nearer  to  the  an- 
gels than  the  fool  is.  This  may  be  an  apocryphal  dogma,  but 
it  is  not  an  impossible  theory." 

"  But  we  may  waste  the  sound  enjoyments  of  actual  life  in 
chasing  the  hope  you  justly  allow  to  be  'apocryphal;'  and  our 
knowledge  may  go  for  nothing  in  the  eyes  of  the  Omniscient." 
"Very  well,"  said  De  Montaigne,  smiling;  "but  answer  me 
honestly.  By  the  pursuits  of  intellectual  ambition  do  you 
waste  the  sound  enjoyments  of  life?  If  so,  you  do  not  pursue 
the  system  rightly.  Those  pursuits  ought  only  to  quicken 
yoTir  sense  for  such  pleasures  as  are  the  true  relaxations  of 
life.  And  this,  with  you  peculiarly,  since  you  are  fortunate 
enough  not  to  depend  for  subsistence  upon  literature.  Did 
you  do  so,  I  might  rather  advise  you  to  be  a  trunkmaker  than 
an  author.  A  man  ought  not  to  attempt  any  of  the  highest 
walks  of  Mind  and  Art  as  the  mere  provision  of  daily  bread; 
not  literature  alone,  but  everything  else  of  the  same  degree. 
He  ought  not  to  be  a  statesman,  or  an  orator,  or  a  i)hiloso- 
pher,  as  a  thing  of  pence  and  shillings;  and  usually  all  men, 
save  the  poor  poet,  feel  this  truth  insensibly." 


ERNEST  MALTllAVERS.  203 

"This  maybe  fine  preaching,"  said  Maltravers;  "but  you 
may  be  quite  sure  that  tlie  pursuit  of  literature  is  a  pursuit 
apart  from  the  ordinary  objects  of  life,  and  you  cannot  com- 
mand the  enjoyments  of  botli." 

"I  think  otherwise,"  said  De  Montaigne;  "but  it  is  not  in 
a  country  house  eighty  miles  from  the  capital,  without  wife, 
guests,  or  friends,  that  the  experiment  can  be  fairly  made. 
Come,  Maltravers,  I  see  before  you  a  brave  career,  and  I 
cannot  permit  you  to  halt  at  the  onset." 

"  You  do  not  see  all  the  calumnies  that  are  already  put  forth 
against  me,  to  say  nothing  of  all  the  assurances  (and  many  by 
clever  men)  that  there  is  nothing  in  me !  " 

"  Dennis  was  a  clever  man,  and  said  the  same  thing  of  your 
I'ope.  Madame  de  Sevign4  was  a  clever  woman,  but  she 
thought  Kacine  would  never  be  very  famous.  Milton  saw 
nothing  in  the  first  efforts  of  Dryden  that  made  him  consider 
Dryden  better  than  a  rhymester.  Aristophanes  was  a  good 
judge  of  poetry,  yet  how  ill  he  judged  of  Euripides !  But  all 
this  is  commonplace,  and  yet  you  bring  arguments  that  a 
commonplace  answers  in  evidence  against  yourself." 

"But  it  is  unpleasant  not  to  answer  attacks, —  not  to  retal- 
iate on  enemies." 

"Then  answer  attacks,  and  retaliate  on  enemies." 

" But  would  that  be  wise?  " 

"If  it  give  you  pleasure, —  it  would  not  please  ??ie." 

"Come,  De  Montaigne,  you  are  reasoning  Socratically.  I 
will  ask  you  plainly  and  bluntly,  would  you  advise  an  author 
to  wage  war  on  his  literary  assailants,  or  to  despise  them?" 

"Both;  let  him  attack  but  few,  and  those  rarely.  But  it 
is  his  policy  to  show  that  he  is  one  whom  it  is  better  not  to 
provoke  too  far.  The  author  always  has  the  world  on  his 
side  against  the  critics,  if  he  choose  his  opportunity.  And  he 
must  always  recollect  that  he  is  'a  state  '  in  himself,  which 
must  sometimes  go  to  war  in  order  to  procure  peace.  The 
time  for  war  or  for  peace  must  be  left  to  the  State's  own 
diplomacy  and  wisdom." 

"You  would  make  us  political  machines." 

"I  would  make  every  man's  conduct  more  or  less  mechaui- 


204  ERXEST   MALTRAVERS. 

cal,  for  system  is  the  triumph  of  mind  over  matter;  the  just 
equilibrium  of  all  the  powers  and  passions  may  seem  like 
machinery.  Be  it  so.  Kature  meant  the  world,  the  creation, 
man  himself,  for  machines." 

"And  one  must  even  be  in  a  passion  mechanically,  according 
to  your  theories." 

"A  man  is  a  poor  creature  who  is  not  in  a  passion  some- 
times ;  but  a  very  unjust,  or  a  very  foolish  one,  if  he  be  in  a 
passion  with  the  wrong  person  and  in  the  wrong  place  and 
time.     But  enough  of  this,  it  is  growing  late." 

"And  when  will  Madame  visit  England?" 

"Oh!  not  yet,  I  fear.  But  you  will  meet  Cesarini  in  Lon- 
don this  year  or  the  next.  He  is  persuaded  that  you  did  not 
see  justice  done  to  his  poems,  and  is  coming  here,  as  soon  as 
his  indolence  will  let  him,  to  proclaim  jorv  treachery  in  a 
biting  preface  to  some  toothless  satire." 

"  Satire ! " 

"  Yes ;  more  than  one  of  your  poets  made  their  way  by  a 
satire,  and  Cesarini  is  persuaded  he  shall  do  the  same.  Cas- 
truccio  is  not  as  far-sighted  as  his  namesake  the  Prince  of 
Lucca.     Good-night,  my  dear  Ernest." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

When  with  much  pains  this  boasted  learning  's  got, 
'T  is  an  aiJrout  to  those  who  have  it  not. 

Churchill  :  The  Author. 

There  was  something  in  De  Montaigne's  conversation 
which,  without  actual  flattery,  reconciled  Maltravers  to  him- 
self and  his  career.  It  served  less,  perhaps,  to  excite  than  to 
sober  and  brace  his  mind.  De  Montaigne  could  have  made 
no  man  rash,  but  he  could  have  made  many  men  energetic  and 
persevering.  The  two  friends  had  some  points  in  common; 
but  Maltravers  had  far  more  prodigality  of  nature  and  passion 
about  him, —  had  more  of  flesh  and  blood,  with  the  faults  and 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  205 

excellences  of  flesh  and  blood.  De  Montaigne  held  so  much 
to  his  favourite  doctrine  of  moral  equilibrium  that  he  had 
really  reduced  himself  in  much  to  a  species  of  clockwork. 
As  impulses  are  formed  from  habits,  so  the  regularity  of  De 
INIoutaigne's  habits  made  his  impulses  virtuous  and  just,  and 
he  yielded  to  them  as  often  as  a  hasty  character  might  have 
done ;  but  then  those  impulses  never  urged  to  anything  specu- 
lative or  daring.  De  Montaigne  could  not  go  beyond  a  certain 
defined  circle  of  action.  He  had  no  sympathy  for  any  reason- 
ings based  purely  on  the  hypotheses  of  the  imagination:  he 
could  not  endure  Plato,  and  he  was  dumb  to  the  eloquent 
whispers  of  whatever  was  refining  in  poetry  or  mystical  in 
wisdom. 

Maltravers,  on  the  contrary,  not  disdaining  Reason,  ever 
sought  to  assist  her  by  the  Imaginative  Faculty,  and  held  all 
philosophy  incomplete  and  unsatisfactory  that  bounded  its 
inquiries  to  the  limits  of  the  Known  and  Certain.  He  loved 
the  inductive  process ;  but  he  carried  it  out  to  Conjecture  as 
well  as  Fact.  He  maintained  that,  by  a  similar  hardihood,  all 
the  triumphs  of  science,  as  well  as  art,  had  been  accomplished ; 
that  Newton,  that  Copernicus,  would  have  done  nothing  if  they 
had  not  imagined  as  well  as  reasoned,  guessed  as  well  as  as- 
certained. Nay,  it  was  an  aphorism  with  him  that  the  very 
soul  of  philosophy  is  conjecture.  He  had  the  most  implicit 
confidence  in  the  operations  of  the  mind  and  the  heart  properly 
formed,  and  deemed  that  the  very  excesses  of  emotion  and 
thought,  in  men  well  trained  by  experience  and  study,  are 
conducive  to  useful  and  great  ends.  But  the  more  advanced 
years,  and  the  singularly  practical  character  of  De  JNIontaigne's 
views,  gave  him  a  superiority  in  argument  over  Maltravers 
which  the  last  submitted  to  unwillingly.  While,  on  the  other 
hand,  De  Montaigne  secretly  felt  that  his  young  friend  rea- 
soned from  a  broader  base  and  took  in  a  much  wider  circum- 
ference, and  that  he  was  at  once  more  liable  to  failure  and 
error,  and  more  capable  of  new  discovery  and  of  intellectual 
achievement.  But  their  ways  in  life  being  different,  they  did 
not  clash ;  and  De  Montaigne,  who  was  sincerely  interested  in 
Ernest's  fate,   was  contented   to   harden   his   friend's    mind 


206  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

against  the  obstacles  in  his  way,  and  leave  the  rest  to  experi- 
ment and  to  Providence.     They  went  up  to  London  together, 
and  De  Montaigne  returned  to  Paris.     Maltravers  appeared 
once  more  in  the  haunts  of  the  gay  and  great.     He  felt  that 
his  new  character  had  greatly  altered  his  position.     He  was 
no  longer  courted  and  caressed  for  the  same  vulgar  and  ad- 
ventitious circumstances  of  fortune,  birth,  and  connections  as 
before,  yet  for  circumstances  that  to  him  seemed  equally  un- 
flattering.    He  was  not  sought  for  his  merit,  his  intellect,  his 
talents,  but  for  his  momentary  celebrity.     He  was  an  author 
in  fashion,  and  run  after,  as  anything  else  in  fashion  might 
have  been.     He  was  invited,  less  to  be  talked  to  than  to  be 
stared  at.     He  was  far  too  proud  in  his  temper,  and  too  pure 
in  his  ambition,  to  feel  his  vanity  elated  by  sharing  the  enthu- 
siasm of  the  circles  with  a  German  prince  or  an  industrious 
flea.      Accordingly,  he  soon  repelled  the  advances  made  to 
him,  was  reserved  and  supercilious  to  fine  ladies,  refused  to 
be  the  fashion,  and  became  very  unpopular  with  the  literary 
exclusives.     They  even  began  to  run  down  the  works  because 
they  were  dissatisfied  with  the  author.     But  IVIaltravers  had 
based  his  experiments  upon  the  vast  masses  of  the  general 
Public.      He  had  called  the   people  of   his  own  and  other 
countries  to  be  his  audience  and  his  judges,  and  all  the  cote- 
ries in  the  world  could  not  have  injured  him.     He  was  like 
the  member  for  an   immense  constituency,  who  may  offend 
individuals,  so  long  as  he  keep  his  footing  with  the  body  at 
large.     But  while  he  withdrew  himself  from  the  insipid  and 
the  idle,  he  took  care  not  to  become  separated  from  the  world. 
He  formed  his  own  society  according  to  his  tastes ;  took  pleas- 
ure in  the  manly  and  exciting  topics  of  the  day;  and  sharpened 
his  observation  and  widened  his  sphere  as  an  author  by  mix- 
ing freely  and  boldly  with  all  classes  as  a  citizen.     But  litera- 
ture became  to  him  as  art  to  the  artist,  as  his  mistress  to  the 
lover,  an  engrossing  and  passionate  delight.     He  made  it  his 
glorious  and  divine  profession;  he  loved  it  f/s  a  profession; 
he   devoted   to  its  piirsuits   and   honours   his   youth,   cares, 
dreams,  —  his  mind  and  his  heart  and  his  soul.     He  was  a 
silent  but  intense  enthusiast  in  the  priesthood  he  had  entered. 


ERNEST  MALTHA  VERS.  207 

From  LITERATURE  he  imagined  had  come  all  that  makes 
nations  enlightened  and  men  humane.  And  he  loved  Litera- 
ture the  more  because  her  distinctions  were  not  those  of  the 
world,  because  she  had  neither  ribbons,  nor  stars,  nor  high 
places  at  her  command.  A  name  in  the  deep  gratitude  and 
hereditary  delight  of  men, —  this  was  the  title  she  bestowed. 
Hers  was  the  Great  Primitive  Church  of  the  world,  without 
Popes  or  Muftis,  sinecures,  pluralities,  and  hierarchies.  Her 
servants  spoke  to  the  earth  as  the  prophets  of  old,  anxious 
only  to  be  heard  and  believed.  Full  of  this  fanaticism,  Ernest 
Maltravers  pursued  his  way  in  the  great  procession  of  the 
myrtle-bearers  to  the  sacred  shrine.  He  carried  the  thyrsus, 
and  he  believed  in  the  god.  By  degrees  his  fanaticism  worked 
in  him  the  philosophy  which  De  Montaigne  would  have  derived 
from  sober  calculation, —  it  made  him  indifferent  to  the  thorns 
in  the  path,  to  the  storms  in  the  sky.  He  learned  to  despise 
the  enmity  he  provoked,  the  calumnies  that  assailed  him. 
Sometimes  he  was  silent,  but  sometimes  he  retorted.  Like  a 
soldier  who  serves  a  cause,  he  believed  that  when  the  cause 
was  injured  in  his  person,  the  weapons  confided  to  his  hands 
might  be  wielded  without  fear  and  without  reproach.  Gradu- 
ally he  became  feared  as  well  as  known;  and  while  many 
abused  him,  none  could  contemn. 

It  would  not  suit  the  design  of  this  work  to  follow  Mal- 
travers step  by  step  in  his  course.  I  am  only  describing  the 
principal  events,  not  the  minute  details,  of  his  intellectual 
life.  Of  the  character  of  his  works  it  Avill  be  enough  to  say, 
that,  whatever  their  faults,  they  were  original,  they  were 
his  own.  He  did  not  write  according  to  copy,  nor  compile 
from  commonplace  books.  He  was  an  artist,  it  is  true,  —  for 
what  is  genius  itself  but  art?  —  but  he  took  laws  and  harmony 
and  order  from  the  great  code  of  Truth  and  Nature,  —  a  code 
that  demands  intense  and  unrelaxing  study,  though  its  first 
principles  are  few  and  simple.  That  study  Maltravers  did 
not  shrink  from.  It  was  a  deep  love  of  truth  that  made  him 
a  subtle  and  searching  analyst  even  in  what  the  dull  world 
considers  trifles;  for  he  knew  that  nothing  in  literature  is  in 
itself  trifling.  —  that  it  is  often  biit  a  hairsbreadth  that  di- 


208  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

vides  a  truism  from  a  discovery.  He  was  the  more  original, 
because  he  sought  rather  after  the  True  than  the  New.  No 
two  minds  are  ever  the  same,  and  therefore  any  man  who  will 
give  us  fairly  and  frankly  the  results  of  his  own  impressions, 
uninfluenced  by  the  servilities  of  imitation,  will  be  original. 
But  it  was  not  from  originality,  which  really  made  his  pre- 
dominant merit,  that  Maltravers  derived  his  reputation,  for 
his  originality  was  not  of  that  species  which  generally  daz- 
zles the  vulgar, —  it  was  not  extravagant  nor  bizarre;  he 
affected  no  system  and  no  school.  Many  authors  of  his  day 
seemed  more  novel  and  unique  to  the  superficial.  Profound 
and  durable  invention  proceeds  by  subtle  and  fine  gradations; 
it  has  nothing  to  do  with  those  jerks  and  starts,  those  convul- 
sions and  distortions,  which  belong,  not  to  the  vigour  and 
health,  but  to  the  epilepsy  and  disease,  of  Literature. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Being  got  out  of  town,  the  first  thing  I  did  was  to  give  my  mule  her 
head.  —  Gil  Bias. 

Although  the  character  of  Maltravers  was  gradually  be- 
coming more  hard  and  severe ;  although,  as  his  reason  grew 
more  muscular,  his  imagination  lost  something  of  its  early 
bloom,  and  he  was  already  very  different  from  the  wild  boy 
who  had  set  the  German  youths  in  a  blaze,  and  had  changed 
into  a  Castle  of  Indolence  the  little  cottage  tenanted  with 
Poetry  and  Alice, — he  still  preserved  many  of  his  old  habits; 
he  loved,  at  frequent  intervals,  to  disappear  from  the  great 
world,  to  get  rid  of  books  and  friends,  and  luxury  and  wealth, 
and  make  solitary  excursions,  sometimes  on  foot,  sometimes 
on  horseback,  through  this  fair  garden  of  England. 

It  was  one  soft  May-day  that  he  found  himself  on  such  an 
expedition,  slowly  riding  through  one  of  the  green  lanes  of 
shire.     His  cloak  and  his  saddle-bags  comprised  all  his 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  209 

baggage,  and  the  world  was  before  him,  "where  to  choose 
his  place  of  rest."  The  lane  wound  at  length  into  the  main 
road,  and  just  as  he  came  upon  it  he  fell  in  with  a  gay  party 
of  equestrians. 

Foremost  of  the  cavalcade  rode  a  lady  in  a  dark-green  habit, 
mounted  on  a  thoroughbred  English  horse,  which  she  man- 
aged with  so  easy  a  grace  that  Maltravers  halted  in  involun- 
tary admiration.  He  himself  was  a  consummate  horseman, 
and  he  had  the  quick  eye  of  sympathy  for  those  who  shared 
the  accomplishment.  He  thought,  as  he  gazed,  that  he  had 
never  seen  but  one  woman  whose  air  and  mien  on  horseback 
were  so  full  of  that  nameless  elegance  which  skill  and  cour- 
age in  any  art  naturally  bestow :  that  woman  was  Valerie  de 
Ventadour.  Presently,  to  his  great  surprise,  the  lady  ad- 
vanced from  her  companions,  neared  Maltravers,  and  said,  in 
a  voice  which  he  did  not  at  first  distinctly  recognize :  "  Is  it 
possible?    Do  I  see  Mr.  Maltravers?" 

She  paused  a  moment,  and  then  threw  aside  her  veil,  and 
Ernest  beheld  —  Madame  de  Ventadour !  By  this  time  a  tall, 
thin  gentleman  had  joined  the  Frenchwoman. 

"Has  Madame  met  with  an  acquaintance?"  said  he;  "and 
if  so,  will  she  permit  me  to  partake  her  pleasure?" 

The  interruption  seemed  a  relief  to  Valerie;  she  smiled 
and  coloured. 

"Let  me  introduce  you  to  Mr.  Maltravers.  Mr.  Maltravers, 
this  is  my  host.  Lord  Doningdale." 

The  two  gentlemen  bowed,  the  rest  of  the  cavalcade  sur- 
rounded the  trio,  and  Lord  Doningdale,  with  a  stately  yet 
frank  courtesy,  invited  Maltravers  to  return  with  the  party 
to  his  house,  which  was  about  four  miles  distant.  As  may  be 
supposed,  Ernest  readily  accepted  the  invitation.  The  cav- 
alcade proceeded,  and  Maltravers  hastened  to  seek  an  ex- 
planation from  Valerie  It  was  soon  given.  Madame  de 
Ventadour  had  a  younger  sister  who  had  lately  married  a  son 
of  Lord  Doningdale.  The  marriage  had  been  solemnized  in 
Paris,  and  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Ventadour  had  been  in 
England  a  week  on  a  visit  to  the  English  peer. 

The  rencontre  was  so  sudden  and  unexpected  that  neither 

14 


210  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

recovered  siifl&cient  self-possession  for  fluent  conversation. 
The  explanation  given,  Valerie  sank  into  a  thoughtful  silence, 
and  Maltravers  rode  by  her  side  equally  taciturn,  pondering 
on  the  strange  chance  which,  after  the  lapse  of  years,  had 
thrown  them  again  together. 

Lord  Doningdale,  who  at  first  lingered  with  his  other  vis- 
itors, now  joined  them,  and  Maltravers  was  struck  with  his 
highbred  manner,  and  a  singular  and  somewhat  elaborate 
polish  in  his  emphasis  and  expression.  They  soon  entered  a 
noble  park,  which  attested  far  more  care  and  attention  than 
are  usually  bestowed  upon  those  demesnes  so  peculiarly  Eng- 
lish. Young  plantations  everywhere  contrasted  the  venerable 
groves,  new  cottages  of  picturesque  design  adorned  the  out- 
skirts, and  obelisks  and  columns,  copied  from  the  antique  and 
evidently  of  recent  worknianshi]),  gleamed  upon  them  as  they 
neared  the  house, —  a  large  pile,  in  which  the  fashion  of 
Queen  Anne's  day  had  been  altered  into  the  French  roofs  and 
windows  of  the  architecture  of  the  Tuileries.  "You  reside 
much  in  the  country,  I  am  sure,  my  lord,"  said  Maltravers. 

"Yes,"  replied  Lord  Doningdale,  with  a  pensive  air,  "this 
place  is  greatly  endeared  to  me.  Here  his  Majesty  Louis 
XVIII.,  when  in  England,  honoured  me  with  an  annual  visit. 
In  compliment  to  him,  I  sought  to  model  my  poor  mansion 
into  an  humble  likeness  of  his  own  palace,  so  that  he  might  as 
little  as  possible  miss  the  rights  he  had  lost.  His  own  rooms 
were  furnished  exactly  like  those  he  had  occupied  at  the 
Tuileries.  Y''es,  the  place  is  endeared  to  me;  I  think  of  the 
old  times  with  pride.  It  is  something  to  have  sheltered  a 
Bourbon  in  his  misfortunes." 

"  It  cost  milord  a  vast  sum  to  make  these  alterations, "  said 
Madame  de  Ventadour,  glancing  archly  at  Maltravers. 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  the  old  lord,  and  his  face,  lately  elated, 
became  overcast, —  "nearly  three  hundred  thousand  pounds. 
But  what  then?    'Les  souvenirs,  Madame,  sont  sans  prix!  '  " 

"Have  you  visited  Paris  since  the  restoration.  Lord  Don- 
ingdale?" asked  Maltravers. 

His  lordship  looked  at  him  sharply,  and  then  turned  liis 
eye  to  Madame  de  Ventadour. 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  211 

"Nay,"  said  Valerie,  laughing,  "I  did  not  dictate  the 
question." 

"Yes,"  said  Lord  Doningdale,  "I  have  been  at  Paris." 

"His  Majesty  must  have  been  delighted  to  return  your 
Lordship's  hospitality." 

Lord  Doningdale  looked  a  little  embarrassed,  and  made  no 
reply,  but  put  his  horse  into  a  canter. 

"You  have  galled  our  host,"  said  Valerie,  smiling.  "Louis 
XVIII.  and  his  friends  lived  here  as  long  as  they  pleased  and 
as  sumptuously  as  they  could;  their  visits  half  ruined  the 
owner,  who  is  the  model  of  a  gent  ill comme  and  preux  chevalier. 
He  went  to  Paris  to  witness  their  triumph;  he  expected,  I 
fancy,  the  order  of  the  Saint  Esprit.  Lord  Doningdale  has 
royal  blood  in  his  veins.  His  Majesty  asked  him  once  to 
dinner,  and  when  he  took  leave,  said  to  him,  'We  are  happy, 
Lord  Doningdale,  to  have  thus  requited  our  obligations  to 
your  Lordship.'  Lord  Doningdale  went  back  in  dudgeon,  yet 
he  still  boasts  of  his  souvenirs,  poor  man." 

"Princes  are  not  grateful,  neither  are  republics,"  said 
Maltravers. 

"Ah!  who  is  grateful,"  rejoined  Valerie,  "except  a  dog  and 
a  woman?" 

Maltravers  found  himself  ushered  into  a  vast  dressing-room, 
and  was  informed  by  a  French  valet  that  in  the  country  Lord 
Doningdale  dined  at  six;  the  first  bell  would  ring  in  a  few 
minutes.  While  the  valet  was  speaking,  Lord  Doningdale 
himself  entered  the  room.  His  Lordship  had  learned,  in  the 
meanwhile,  that  Maltravers  was  of  the  great  and  ancient 
commoners'  house  whose  honours  were  centred  in  his  brother; 
and  yet  more,  that  he  was  the  Mr.  jNIaltravers  whose  writings 
every  one  talked  of,  whether  for  praise  or  abuse.  Lord 
Doningdale  had  the  two  characteristics  of  a  highbred  gentle- 
man of  the  old  school,  —  respect  for  birth,  and  respect  for  tal- 
ent; he  was,  therefore,  more  than  ordinarily  courteous  to 
Ernest,  and  pressed  him  to  stay  some  days  with  so  much  cor- 
diality that  Maltravers  could  not  but  assent.  His  travelling 
toilet  was  scanty,  but  Maltravers  thought  little  of  dress. 


212  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

It  is  the  soul  that  sees.     The  outward  eyes 

Present  the  object,  but  the  mind  descries  ; 

And  theuce  delight,  disgust,  or  cool  indifference  rise. 

Crabbe. 

When  Maltravers  entered  tlie  enormous  saloon,  hung  witli 
damask  and  decorated  with  the  ponderous  enrichments  and 
furniture  of  the  time  of  Louis  XIY.  (that  most  showy  and 
barbarous  of  all  tastes,  which  has  nothing  in  it  of  the  grace- 
ful, nothing  of  the  picturesque,  and  which,  nowadays,  people 
who  should  know  better  imitate  with  a  ludicrous  servility), 
he  found  sixteen  persons  assembled.  His  host  stepped  up 
from  a  circle  which  surrounded  him,  and  formally  presented 
his  new  visitor  to  the  rest.  He  was  struck  with  the  likeness 
which  the  sister  of  Valerie  bore  to  Valerie  herself;  but  it  was 
a  sobered  and  chastened  likeness,  less  handsome,  less  impres- 
sive. Mrs.  George  Herbert  —  such  was  the  name  she  now 
owned  —  was  a  pretty,  shrinking,  timid  girl,  fond  of  her  hus- 
band, and  mightily  awed  by  her  father-in-law.  Maltravers 
sat  by  her,  and  drew  her  into  conversation.  He  could  not 
help  pitying  the  poor  lad}'  when  he  found  she  was  to  live 
altogether  at  Doningdale  Park,  remote  from  all  the  friends 
and  habits  of  her  childhood,  alone,  so  far  as  the  affections 
were  concerned,  with  a  young  husband  who  was  passionately 
fond  of  field-sports,  and  who,  from  the  few  words  Ernest  ex- 
changed with  him,  seemed  to  have  only  three  ideas, —  his 
dogs,  his  horses,  and  his  wife.  Alas!  the  last  woiild  soon  be 
the  least  in  importance.  It  is  a  sad  position, — that  of  a  lively 
young  Frenchwoman  entombed  in  an  English  country  house ! 
Marriages  with  foreigners  are  seldom  fortunate  experiments. 
But  Ernest's  attention  was  soon  diverted  from  the  sister  by 
the  entrance  of  Valerie  herself,  leaning  on  her  husband's  arm. 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  213 

Hitherto  he  had  not  very  minutely  observed  what  change 
time  had  effected  in  her, —  perhaps  he  was  half  afraid.  He 
now  gazed  at  her  with  curious  interest.  Valerie  was  still  ex- 
tremely handsome,  but  her  face  had  grown  sharper,  her  form 
thinner  and  more  angular;  there  was  something  in  her  eye 
and  lip  discontented,  restless,  almost  querulous:  such  is  the 
too-common  expression  in  the  face  of  those  born  to  love,  and 
condemned  to  be  indifferent.  The  little  sister  was  more  to 
be  envied  of  the  two :  come  what  may,  she  loved  her  husband, 
such  as  he  was,  and  her  heart  might  ache,  but  it  was  not  with 
a  void. 

M.  de  Ventadour  soon  shuffled  up  to  Maltravers,  his  nose 
longer  than  ever. 

'"'■  Hein,  hein,  how  d'ye  do,  how  d'ye  do?  Charmed  to  see 
you.  Saw  Madame  before  me,  hein,  hein!  I  suspect,  I 
suspect  —  " 

"  Mr.  Maltravers,  will  you  give  Madame  de  Ventadour  your 
arm?"  said  Lord  Doningdale,  as  he  stalked  on  to  the  dining- 
room  with  a  duchess  on  his  own. 

*'And  you  have  left  Naples,"  said  Maltravers, —  "left  it 
for  good?" 

"We  do  not  think  of  returning." 

" It  was  a  charming  place.  How  I  loved  it!  How  well  I 
remember  it !  "  Ernest  spoke  calmly ;  it  was  but  a  general 
remark. 

Valerie  sighed  gently. 

During  dinner  the  conversation  between  Maltravers  and 
3Iadame  de  Ventadour  was  vague  and  embarrassed.  Ernest 
was  no  longer  in  love  with  her, —  he  had  outgrown  that  youth- 
ful fancy.  She  had  exercised  influence  over  him, —  the  new 
influences  that  he  had  created  had  chased  away  her  image. 
Such  is  life.  Long  absences  extinguish  all  the  false  lights, 
though  not  the  true  ones.  The  lamps  are  dead  in  the  ban- 
quet-room of  yesterday;  but  a  thousand  years  hence,  and  the 
stars  we  look  on  to-night  will  burn  as  brightly.  Maltravers 
was  no  longer  in  love  with  Valerie.  But  Valerie  —  ah,  per- 
haps hers  had  been  true  love! 

Maltravers   was    surprised  when  he  came  to  examine  the 


214  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

state  of  his  own  feelings;  he  was  surprised  to  find  that  his 
pulse  did  not  beat  quicker  at  the  touch  of  one  whose  very 
glance  had  once  thrilled  him  to  the  soul, —  he  was  surprised, 
but  rejoiced.  He  was  no  longer  anxious  to  seek,  but  to  shun 
excitement,  and  he  was  a  better  and  a  higher  being  than  he 
had  been  on  the  shores  of  Naples. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Whence  that  low  voice,  a  whisper  from  the  heart, 
That  told  of  days  long  past  1  —  Wordsworth. 

Erxest  stayed  several  days  at  Lord  Doningdale's,  and 
every  day  he  rode  out  with  Valerie,  but  it  was  with  a  large 
party;  and  every  evening  he  conversed  with  her,  but  the 
whole  world  might  have  overheard  what  they  said.  In  fact, 
the  sympathy  that  had  once  existed  between  the  young  dreamer 
and  the  proud,  discontented  woman  had  in  much  passed  away. 
Awakened  to  vast  and  grand  objects,  Maltravers  was  a  dreamer 
no  more.  Inured  to  the  life  of  trifles  she  had  once  loathed, 
Valerie  had  settled  down  into  the  usages  and  thoughts  of  the 
common  world ;  she  had  no  longer  the  superiority  of  earthly 
wisdom  over  Maltravers,  and  his  romance  was  sobered  in  its 
eloquence,  and  her  ear  dulled  to  its  tone.  Still  Ernest  felt  a 
deep  interest  in  her,  and  still  she  seemed  to  feel  a  sensitive 
pride  in  his  career. 

One  evening  Maltravers  had  joined  a  circle  in  which  Ma- 
dame de  Ventadour,  with  more  than  her  usual  animation,  pre- 
sided, and  to  which,  in  her  pretty,  womanly,  and  thoroughly 
Erench  way,  she  was  lightly  laying  down  the  law  on  a  hun- 
dred subjects,  —  Philosophy,  Poetry,  Sevres  china,  and  the 
balance  of  power  in  Europe.  Ernest  listened  to  her,  de- 
lighted, but  not  enchanted.  Yet  Valerie  was  not  natural  that 
night, —  she  was  speaking  from  forced  spirits. 


ERNEST  MALTR AVERS.  215 

"Well,"  said  Madame  de  Veiitadour  at  last,  tired,  perliaps, 
of  the  part  she  had  been  playing,  and  bringing  to  a  sudden 
close  an  animated  description  of  the  then  French  court, — 
"well,  see  now  if  we  ought  not  to  be  ashamed  of  ourselves; 
our  talk  has  positively  interrupted  the  music.  Did  you  see 
Lord  Doningdale  stop  it  with  a  bow  to  me,  as  much  as  to  say, 
with  his  courtly  reproof,  'It  shall  not  disturb  you,  madam'? 
I  will  no  longer  be  accessory  to  your  crime  of  bad  taste !  " 

With  this  the  Frenchwoman  rose,  and  gliding  through  the 
circle,  retired  to  the  farther  end  of  the  room.  Ernest  fol- 
lowed her  with  his  eyes.  Suddenly  she  beckoned  to  him, 
and  he  approached  and  seated  himself  by  her  side. 

"Mr.  Maltravers,"  said  Valerie  then,  with  great  sweetness 
in  her  voice,  "I  have  not  yet  expressed  to  you  the  delight  I 
have  felt  from  your  genius.  In  absence  you  have  suffered 
me  to  converse  with  you;  your  books  have  been  to  me  dear 
friends.  As  we  shall  soon  part  again,  let  me  now  tell  you 
of  this  frankly  and  without  compliment." 

This  paved  the  way  to  a  conversation  that  approached  more 
on  the  precincts  of  the  past  than  any  they  had  yet  known. 
But  Ernest  was  guarded,  and  Valerie  watched  his  words  and 
looks  with  an  interest  she  could  not  conceal, —  an  interest 
that  partook  of  disappointment. 

"It  is  an  excitement,"  said  Valerie,  "to  climb  a  mountain, 
though  it  fatigue,  and  though  the  clouds  may  even  deny  us  a 
prospect  from  its  summit;  it  is  an  excitement  that  gives  a 
very  universal  pleasure,  and  that  seems  almost  as  if  it  were 
the  result  of  a  common  human  instinct  which  makes  us  desire 
to  rise, — to  get  above  the  ordinary  thoroughfares  and  level  of 
life.  Some  such  pleasure  you  must  have  in  intellectual  am- 
bition, in  which  the  mind  is  the  upward  traveller." 

"It  is  not  the  ambition  that  pleases,"  replied  Maltravers, 
"  it  is  the  following  a  path  congenial  to  our  tastes  and  made 
dear  to  us  in  a  short  time  by  habit.  The  moments  in  which 
we  look  beyond  our  work,  and  fancy  ourselves  seated  beneath 
the  Everlasting  Laurel,  are  few.  It  is  the  work  itself, 
whether  of  action  or  literature,  that  interests  and  excites  us. 
And  at  length  the  dryness  of  toil  takes  the  familiar  sweet- 


216  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

ness  of  custom.  But  in  intellectual  labour  there  is  another 
charm, —  we  become  more  intimate  with  our  own  nature. 
The  heart  and  the  soul  grow  friends,  as  it  were,  and  the 
affections  and  the  aspirations  unite.  Thus,  we  are  never 
without  society,  we  are  never  alone ;  all  that  we  have  read, 
learned,  and  discovered,  is  company  to  us.  This  is  pleasant," 
added  Maltravers,  "to  those  who  have  no  dear  connections  in 
the  world  without." 

"And  is  that  your  case?"  asked  Valerie,  with  a  timid 
smile. 

"  Alas,  yes !  and  since  I  conquered  one  affection,  Madame  de 
Ventadour,  I  almost  think  I  have  outlived  the  capacity  of  lov- 
ing. I  believe  that  when  we  cultivate  very  largely  the  reason 
or  the  imagination,  we  blunt,  to  a  certain  extent,  our  young 
susceptibilities  to  the  fair  impressions  of  real  life.  From 
'idleness,'  says  the  old  Roman  poet,  'Love  feeds  his  torch.' " 

"  You  are  too  young  to  talk  thus." 

"I  speak  as  I  feel.'' 

Valerie  said  no  more.  Shortly  afterwards  Lord  Doningdale 
approached  them,  and  proposed  that  they  should  make  an 
excursion  the  next  day  to  see  the  ruins  of  an  old  abbey  some 
few  miles  distant. 


CHAPTER  X. 

If  I  should  meet  thee 

After  long  years, 

How  shall  I  greet  thee  ?  —  Byron. 

It  was  a  smaller  party  than  usual  the  next  day,  consisting 
only  of  Lord  Doningdale,  his  son  George  Herbert,  Valerie, 
and  Ernest.  They  were  returning  from  the  ruins,  and  the 
sun,  now  gradually  approaching  the  west,  threw  its  slant  rays 
over  the  gardens  and  houses  of  a  small,  picturesque  town, 
or,  perhaps,  rather  village,  on  the  high  North  Road.     It  is 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  217 

one  of  the  prettiest  places  in  England,  that  town  or  village, 
and  boasts  an  excellent  old-fashioned  inn,  with  a  large  and 
quaint  pleasure -garden.  It  was  through  the  long  and  strag- 
gling street  that  our  little  party  slowly  rode,  when  the  sky 
became  suddenly  overcast,  and,  a  few  large  hailstones  falling, 
gave  notice  of  an  approaching  storm. 

"  I  told  you  we  should  not  get  safely  through  the  day, "  said 
George  Herbert.     "Now  we  are  in  for  it." 

"George,  that  is  a  vulgar  expression,"  said  Lord  Doning- 
dale,  buttoning  up  his  coat.  "While  he  spoke,  a  vivid  flash  of 
lightning  darted  across  their  very  path,  and  the  sky  grew 
darker  and  darker. 

"  We  may  as  well  rest  at  the  inn, "  said  Maltravers ;  "  the 
storm  is  coming  on  apace,  and  Madame  de  Ventadour  —  " 

"You  are  right,"  interrupted  Lord  Doningdale;  and  he  put 
his  horse  into  a  canter. 

They  were  soon  at  the  door  of  the  old  hotel.  Bells  rang, 
dogs  barked,  hostlers  ran.  A  plain,  dark,  travelling  post- 
chariot  was  before  the  inn-door;  and  roused,  perhaps,  by  the 
noise  below,  a  lady  in  the  "first-floor  front.  No.  2,"  came  to 
the  window.  This  lady  owned  the  travelling-carriage,  and 
was  at  this  time  alone  in  that  apartment.  As  she  looked 
carelessly  at  the  party,  her  eyes  rested  on  one  form :  she 
turned  pale,  uttered  a  faint  cry,  and  fell  senseless  on  the 
floor. 

Meanwhile,  Lord  Doningdale  and  his  guests  were  shown 
into  the  room  next  to  that  tenanted  by  the  lady.  Properly 
speaking,  both  the  rooms  made  one  long  apartment  for  balls 
and  county  meetings,  and  the  division  was  formed  by  a  thin 
partition  removable  at  pleasure.  The  hail  now  came  on  fast 
and  heavy ;  the  trees  groaned,  the  thunder  roared,  and  in  the 
large,  dreary  room  there  was  a  palpable  and  oppressive  sense 
of  coldness  and  discomfort.  Valerie  shivered,  a  fire  was 
lighted,  and  the  Frenchwoman  drew  near  to  it. 

"You  are  wet,  my  dear  lady,"  said  Lord  Doningdale. 
"You  should  take  off  that  close  habit  and  have  it  dried." 

"Oh,  no!  What  matters  it?"  said  Valerie  bitterly,  and 
almost  rudely. 


218  ERNEST   MALTRAYERS. 

"It  matters  everything,"  said  Ernest;  "pray  be  ruled." 

"And  do  you  care  for  me?"  murmured  Valerie. 

"Can  you  ask  that  question?"  replied  Ernest,  in  the  same 
tone,  and  with  affectionate  and  friendly  warmth. 

Meanwhile  the  good  old  lord  had  summoned  the  chamber- 
maid, and  with  the  kindly  imperiousness  of  a  father  made 
Valerie  quit  the  room.  The  three  gentlemen,  left  together, 
talked  of  the  storm,  wondered  how  long  it  would  last,  and 
debated  the  propriety  of  sending  to  Doningdale  for  the  car- 
riage. While  they  spoke,  the  hail  suddenly  ceased,  though 
clouds  in  the  distant  horizon  were  bearing  heavily  up  to  re- 
new the  charge.  George  Herbert,  who  was  the  most  impa- 
tient of  mortals,  especially  of  rainy  weather  in  a  strange  place, 
seized  the  occasion,  and  insisted  on  riding  to  Doningdale  and 
sending  back  the  carriage. 

"Surely  a  groom  would  do  as  well,  George,"  said  the 
father. 

"  My  dear  father,  no ;  I  should  env}-  the  rogue  too  much.  I 
am  bored  to  death  here.  Marie  will  be  frightened  about  us. 
Brown  Bess  will  take  me  back  in  twent}^  minutes.  I  am  a 
hardy  fellow,  you  know.     Good-by." 

Away  darted  the  young  sportsman,  and  in  two  minutes  they 
saw  him  spur  gayly  from  the  inn-door. 

"  It  is  very  odd  that  /  should  have  such  a  son, "  said  Lord 
Doningdale,  musinglj^, —  "a  son  who  cannot  amuse  himself 
in-doors  for  two  minutes  together.  I  took  great  pains  with 
his  education,  too.  Strange  that  people  should  weary  so 
much  of  themselves  that  they  cannot  brave  the  prospect  of  a 
few  minutes  passed  in  reflection ;  that  a  shower  and  the  re- 
sources of  their  own  thoughts  are  evils  so  galling, — very 
strange  indeed.  But  it  is  a  confounded  climate  this,  cer- 
tainly.    I  wonder  when  it  will  clear  up." 

Thus  muttering.  Lord  Doningdale  walked, or  rather  marched, 
to  and  fro  the  room,  with  his  hands  in  his  coat -pockets,  and 
his  whip  sticking  perpendicularly  out  of  the  right  one.  Just 
at  this  moment  the  waiter  came  to  announce  that  his  lord- 
ship's groom  was  without,  and  desired  much  to  see  him. 
Lord  Doningdale  had  then  the  pleasure  of  learning  that  his 


'     ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  219 

favourite  gray  hackney,  which  he  had  ridden,  winter  and 
Gummer,  for  fifteen  years,  was  taken  with  shivers,  and,  as  the 
groom  expressed  it,  seemed  to  have  "the  collar  [cholera?]  in 
its  bowels ! " 

Lord  Doningdale  turned  pale,  and  hurried  to  the  stables 
without  saying  a  word. 

IMaltravers,  who,  plunged  in  thought,  had  not  overheard 
the  low  and  brief  conference  between  master  and  groom,  re- 
mained alone,  seated  by  the  fire,  his  head  buried  in  his  bosom, 
and  his  arms  folded. 

Meanwhile,  the  lady,  who  occupied  the  adjoining  chamber, 
had  recovered  slowly  from  her  swoon.  She  put  both  hands  to 
her  temj)les,  as  if  trying  to  recollect  her  thoughts.  Hers  was 
a  fair,  innocent,  almost  childish  face;  and  now,  as  a  smile 
shot  across  it,  there  was  something  so  sweet  and  touching  in 
the  gladness  it  shed  over  that  countenance  that  you  could  not 
have  seen  it  without  strong  and  almost  painful  interest.  For 
it  was  the  gladness  of  a  person  who  has  known  sorrow.  Sud- 
denly she  started  up,  and  said :  "  No,  then.  I  do  not  dream. 
He  is  come  back, —  he  is  here;  all  will  be  well  again!  Ha! 
it  is  his  voice.  Oh,  bless  him,  it  is  Jiis  voice! "  She  paused, 
her  finger  on  her  lip,  her  face  bent  down.  A  low  and  indis- 
tinct sound  of  voices  reached  her  straining  ear  through  the 
thin  door  that  divided  her  from  Maltravers.  She  listened  in- 
tently, but  she  could  not  overhear  the  import.  Her  heart  beat 
violently.  "He  is  not  alone!"  she  murmured  mournfully. 
"  1  will  wait  till  the  sound  ceases,  and  then  I  will  venture  in !  " 

And  what  was  the  conversation  carried  on  in  that  chamber? 
"We  must  return  to  Ernest.  He  Avas  sitting  in  the  same 
thoughtful  posture  when  Madame  de  Ventadour  returned. 

The  Frenchwoman  coloured  when  she  found  herself  alone 
with  Ernest,  and  Ernest  himself  was  not  at  his  ease. 

"Herbert  has  gone  home  to  order  the  carriage,  and  Lord 
Doningdale  has  disappeared,  I  scarce  know  whither.  You 
do  Dot,  I  trust,  feel  the  worse  for  the  rain?" 

"No,"  said  Valerie. 

"Shall  you  have  any  commands  in  London?"  asked  Mal- 
travers; "I  return  to  town  to-morrow." 


220  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

"  So  soon !  "  and  Valerie  sighed.  "  Ah !  "  she  added,  after 
a  pause,  "  we  shall  not  meet  again  for  years,  perhaps.     M.  de 

Ventadour  is  to  be  appointed  ambassador  to  the Court, 

and  so,  and  so  —  AVell,  it  is  no  matter.  What  has  become 
of  the  friendship  we  once  swore  to  each  other?" 

"  It  is  here, "  said  Maltravers,  laying  his  hand  on  his  heart. 
"  Here,  at  least,  lies  the  half  of  that  friendship  which  was  my 
charge;  and  more  than  friendship,  Valerie  de  Ventadour, — 
respect,  admiration,  gratitude.  At  a  time  of  life  when  pas- 
sion and  fancy,  most  strong,  might  have  left  me  an  idle  and 
worthless  voluptuary,  you  convinced  me  that  the  world  has 
virtue,  and  that  woman  is  too  noble  to  be  our  toy, —  the  idol 
of  to-day,  the  victim  of  to-morrow.  Your  influence,  Valerie, 
left  me  a  more  thoughtful  man, —  I  hope  a  better  one." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Madame  de  Ventadour,  strongly  affected,  "  I 
bless  you  for  what  you  tell  me ;  you  cannot  know,  you  cannot 
guess,  how  sweet  it  is  to  me!  Now  I  recognize  you  once 
more.  What  —  what  did  my  resolution  cost  me !  Xow  I  am 
repaid! " 

Ernest  was  moved  by  her  emotion  and  by  his  own  remem- 
brances; he  took  her  hand,  and  pressing  it  with  frank  and  re- 
spectful tenderness,  "I  did  not  think,  Valerie,"  said  he, 
"when  I  reviewed  the  past,  I  did  not  think  that  you  loved 
me, — I  was  not  vain  enough  for  that;  but  if  so,  how  much  is 
your  character  raised  in  my  eyes, —  how  provident,  how  wise 
your  virtue  I  Happier  and  better  for  both,  our  present  feel- 
ings, each  to  each,  than  if  we  had  indulged  a  brief  and  guilty 
dream  of  passion,  at  war  with  all  that  leaves  passion  without 
remorse,  and  bliss  without  alloy.     Now  —  " 

"Now,"  interrupted  Valerie,  quickly,  and  fixing  on  him 
her  dark  eyes  —  "  now  you  love  me  no  longer !  Yet  it  is  bet- 
ter so.  Well,  I  will  go  back  to  my  cold  and  cheerless  state 
of  life,  and  forget  once  more  that  Heaven  endowed  me  with  a 
heart!" 

"Ah,  Valerie!  esteemed,  revered,  still  beloved,  not  indeed 
with  the  fires  of  old,  but  with  a  deep,  undying,  and  holy  ten- 
derness, speak  not  thus  to  me.  Let  me  not  believe  you  un- 
happy; let  me  think  that,  wise,  sagacious,  brilliant  as  you 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  221 

are,  you  have  employed  your  gifts  to  reconcile  yourself  to  a 
common  lot.  Still  let  me  look  up  to  you  when  I  would  de- 
spise the  circles  in  which  you  live,  and  say:  'On  that  pedestal 
an  altar  is  yet  placed  to  which  the  heart  may  bring  the  offer- 
ings of  the  soul. '  " 

"It  is  in  vain,  in  vain  that  I  struggle,"  said  Valerie,  half- 
choked  with  emotion,  and  clasping  her  hands  passionately. 
"Ernest,  I  love  you  still;  1  am  wretched  to  think  you  love 
me  no  more ;  I  would  give  you  nothing,  yet  I  exact  all.  My 
youth  is  going,  my  beauty  dimmed,  my  very  intellect  is 
dulled  by  the  life  I  lead;  and  yet  I  ask  from  you  that  which 
your  young  heart  once  felt  for  me.  Despise  me,  Maltravers, 
I  am  not  what  I  seemed;  I  am  a  hypocrite, —  despise  me." 

"No,"  said  Ernest,  again  possessing  himself  of  her  hand, 
and  falling  on  his  knee  by  her  side.  "No,  never-to-be-for- 
gotten, ever-to-be-honoured  Valerie,  hear  me."  As  he  spoke, 
he  kissed  the  hand  he  held;  with  the  other,  Valerie  covered 
her  face  and  wept  bitterly,  but  in  silence.  Ernest  paused 
till  the  burst  of  her  feelings  had  subsided,  her  hand  still  in 
his,  still  warmed  by  his  kisses, — kisses  as  pure  as  cavalier 
ever  impressed  on  the  hand  of  his  queen. 

At  this  time  the  door  communicating  with  the  next  room 
gently  opened.  A  fair  form  —  a  form  fairer  and  younger  than 
that  of  Valerie  de  Ventadour  —  entered  the  apartment;  the 
silence  had  deceived  her, —  she  believed  that  Maltravers  was 
alone.  She  had  entered  with  her  heart  upon  her  lips,  —  love, 
sanguine,  hopeful  love,  in  every  vein,  in  every  thought;  she 
had  entered  dreaming  that  across  that  threshold  life  would 
dawn  upon  her  afresh,  that  all  would  be  once  more  as  it  had 
been,  when  the  common  air  was  rapture.  Thus  she  entered; 
and  now  she  stood  spell -bound,  terror-stricken,  pale  as  death, 
—  life  turned  to  stone ;  youth,  hope,  bliss,  were  forever  over 
to  her!  Ernest  kneeling  to  another  was  all  she  saw!  For 
this  had  she  been  faithful  and  true  amidst  storm  and  desola- 
tion; for  this  had  she  hoped,  dreamed,  lived.  They  did  not 
note  her;  she  was  unseen,  unheard.  And  Ernest,  who  would 
have  gone  barefoot  to  the  end  of  the  earth  to  find  her,  was  in 
the  very  room  with  her,  and  knew  it  not! 


222  ERXEST   MALTRAVERS. 

"Call  me  again  beloved!^'  said  Valerie,  very  softly. 

"Beloved  Valerie,  hear  me." 

These  words  were  enough  for  the  listener ;  she  turned  noise- 
lessly away:  humble  as  that  heart  was,  it  was  proud.  The 
door  closed  on  her.  She  had  obtained  the  wish  of  her  whole 
being;  Heaven  had  heard  her  prayer, —  she  had  once  more 
seen  the  lover  of  her  youth ;  and  thenceforth  all  was  night  and 
darkness  to  her.  What  matter  what  became  of  her?  One 
moment, —  what  an  effect  it  produces  upon  years!  Oxe  mo- 
ment! Virtue,  crime,  glory,  shame,  woe,  rapture,  rest  upon 
moments !  Death  itself  is  but  a  moment,  yet  Eternity  is  its 
successor! 

"  Hear  me !  "  continued  Ernest,  unconscious  of  what  had 
passed, —  "  hear  me ;  let  us  be  what  human  nature  and  worldly 
forms  seldom  allow  those  of  opposite  sexes  to  be, — friends 
to  each  other,  and  to  virtue  also;  friends  through  time  and 
absence;  friends  through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  life;  friends 
on  whose  affection  shame  and  remorse  never  cast  a  shade; 
friends  who  are  to  meet  hereafter!  Oh,  there  is  no  attach- 
ment so  true,  no  tie  so  holy,  as  that  which  is  founded  on  the 
old  chivalry  of  loyalty  and  honour,  and  which  is  what  love 
would  be  if  the  heart  and  the  soul  were  unadulterated  by 
clay." 

There  was  in  Ernest's  countenance  an  expression  so  noble, 
in  his  voice  a  tone  so  thrilling,  that  Valerie  was  brought  back 
at  once  to  the  nature  which  a  momentary  weakness  had  sub- 
dued. She  looked  at  him  with  an  admiring  and  grateful  gaze, 
and  then  said,  in  a  calm  but  low  voice :  "  Ernest,  I  understand 
you;  yes,  your  friendship  is  dearer  to  me  than  love." 

At  this  time  they  heard  the  voice  of  Lord  Doningdale  on 
the  stairs.  Valerie  turned  away.  Maltravers,  as  he  rose, 
extended  his  hand ;  she  pressed  it  warmly,  and  the  spell  was 
broken,  the  temptation  conquered,  the  ordeal  passed.  While 
Lord  Doningdale  entered  the  room,  the  carriage,  with  Herbert 
in  it,  drove  to  the  door.  In  a  few  minutes  the  little  party 
were  within  the  vehicle.  As  they  drove  away,  the  hostlers 
were  harnessing  the  horses  to  the  dark-green  travelling-car- 
riage.     From   the   window,   a  sad  and  straining  eye  gazed 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  223 

upon  the  gayer  equipage  of  the  peer, —  that  eye  which  Mal- 
travers  would  have  given  his  whole  fortune  to  meet  again. 
But  he  did  not  look  up;  and  Alice  Darvil  turned  away,  and 
her  fate  was  fixed! 


CHAPTER   XI. 

Strange  fits  of  passion  I  have  known, 
And  I  ^vill  dare  to  tell.  —  Wordsworth. 

.    .     .     The  food  of  hope 
Is  meditated  action.  —  Wordsworth. 

Maltravers  left  Doningdale  the  next  day.  He  had  no 
further  conversation  with  Valerie ;  but  when  he  took  leave  of 
her,  she  placed  in  his  hand  a  letter,  which  he  read  as  he  rode 
slowly  through  the  beech  avenues  of  the  park.  Translated, 
it  ran  thus :  — 

"  Others  would  despise  me  for  the  weakness  I  showed,  but  you  will 
not !  It  is  the  sole  weakness  of  a  life.  Xone  can  know  what  I  have 
passed  through,  what  hours  of  dejection  and  gloom,  —  I,  whom  so  many 
envy  !  Better  to  have  been  a  peasant  girl,  with  love,  than  a  ([ueen  whose 
life  is  but  a  dull  mechanism.  You,  Maltravers,  I  never  forgot  in  ab- 
sence, and  your  image  made  yet  more  wearisome  and  trite  the  things 
around  me.  Years  passed,  and  your  name  was  suddenly  on  men's  lips. 
I  heard  of  you  wherever  I  went,  —  I  could  not  shut  you  from  me.  Your 
fame  was  as  if  you  were  conversing  by  my  side.  We  met  at  last,  sud- 
denly and  unexpectedly.  I  saw  that  you  loved  me  no  more,  and  that 
thought  conquered  all  my  resolves :  anguish  subdues  the  nerves  of  the 
mind  as  sickness  those  of  the  body.  And  thus  I  forgot,  and  humbled, 
and  might  have  undone  myself.  Juster  and  better  thoughts  are  once 
more  awakened  within  me,  and  when  we  meet  again  I  shall  be  worthy 
of  your  respect.  I  see  how  dangerous  are  that  luxury  of  thought,  that 
sin  of  discontent  which  I  indulged.  I  go  back  to  life  resolved  to  van- 
quish all  that  can  interfere  with  its  claims  and  duties.  Heaven  guide 
and  preserve  you,  Ernest!  Think  of  me  as  one  whom  you  will  not 
blush  to  have  loved,  whom  you  will  not  blush  hereafter  to  present  to 
your  wife.  With  so  much  that  is  soft,  as  well  as  great  within  you,  you 
were  not  formed  like  me,  —  to  be  alone.     Farewell !  " 


224  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

Maltravers  read  and  re-read  this  letter;  and  when  he  reached 
his  home,  he  placed  it  carefully  amongst  the  things  he  most 
valued.  A  lock  of  Alice's  hair  lay  beside  it:  he  did  not  think 
that  either  was  dishonoured  by  the  contact. 

With  an  effort,  he  turned  himself  once  more  to  those  stern 
yet  high  connections  which  literature  makes  with  real  life. 
Perhaps  there  was  a  certain  restlessness  in  his  heart  which 
induced  him  ever  to  occupy  his  mind.  That  was  one  of  the 
busiest  years  of  his  life,  — the  one  in  which  he  did  most  to 
sharpen  jealousy  and  confirm  fame. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

In  effect,  lie  entered  my  apartment.  —  Gil  Bias. 

"  I  am  surprised,"  said  he,  "  at  the  caprice  of  Fortune,  who  sometimes  de- 
lights in  loading  an  execrable  author  with  favours,  whilst  she  leaves  good 
writers  to  perish  for  want."  —  Gil  Bias. 

It  was  just  twelve  months  after  his  last  interview  with 
Valerie,  and  Madame  de  Yentadour  had  long  since  quitted 
England,  when  one  morning,  as  Maltravers  sat  alone  in  his 
study,  Castruccio  Cesarini  was  announced. 

"Ah,  my  dear  Castruccio,  how  are  you?"  cried  Maltravers, 
eagerly,  as  the  opening  door  presented  the  form  of  the  Italian. 

"Sir,"  said  Castruccio,  with  great  stiffness,  and  speaking 
in  French,  which  was  his  wont  when  he  meant  to  be  distant, 
—  "  sir,  I  do  not  come  to  renew  our  former  acquaintance :  you 
are  a  great  man  [here  a  bitter  sneer],  I  an  obscure  one  [here 
Castruccio  drew  himself  up]  ;■  I  only  come  to  discharge  a  debt 
to  you  which  I  find  I  have  incurred." 

"What  tone  is  this,  Castruccio,  and  what  debt  do  j'ou 
speak  of?" 

"On  my  arrival  in  town  yesterday,"  said  the  poet,  sol- 
emnly, "I  went  to  the  man  whom  you  deputed  some  years 
since  to  publish  my  little  volume,  to  demand  an  account  of  its 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  225 

success ;  and  I  found  that  it  had  cost  one  hundred  and  twenty 
pounds,  deducting  the  sale  of  forty-nine  copies  which  had 
been  sokl.  Yottr  books  sell  some  thousands,  I  am  told.  It 
is  well  contrived, —  mine  fell  still-born;  no  pains  were  taken 
with  it.  No  matter  [a  wave  of  the  hand] .  You  discharged 
this  debt,  I  repay  you:  there  is  a  check  for  the  money. 
Sir,  I  have  done !  I  wish  you  a  good  day,  and  health  to  enjoy 
your  reputation." 

"Why,  Cesarini,  this  is  folly." 

"Sir  —  " 

"Yes,  it  is  folly;  for  there  is  no  folly  equal  to  that  of 
throwing  away  friendship  in  a  world  where  friendship  is  so 
rare.  You  insinuate  that  I  am  to  blame  for  any  neglect 
which  your  work  experienced.  Your  publisher  can  tell  you 
that  I  was  more  anxious  about  your  book  than  I  have  ever 
been  about  my  own." 

"  And  the  proof  is  that  forty-nine  copies  were  sold !  " 

"Sit  down,  Castruccio,  sit  down  and  listen  to  reason;"  and 
Maltravers  proceeded  to  explain  and  soothe  and  console.  He 
reminded  the  poor  poet  that  his  verses  were  written  in  a  for- 
eign tongue;  that  even  English  poets  of  great  fame  enjoyed 
but  a  limited  sale  for  their  works;  that  it  was  impossible  to 
make  the  avaricious  public  purchase  what  the  stupid  public 
would  not  take  an  interest  in, —  in  short,  he  used  all  those 
arguments  which  naturally  suggested  themselves  as  best  cal- 
culated to  convince  and  soften  Castruccio;  and  he  did  this 
with  so  much  evident  sympathy  and  kindness  that  at  length 
the  Italian  could  no  longer  justify  his  own  resentment.  A 
reconciliation  took  place,  sincere  on  the  part  of  Maltravers, 
hollow  on  the  part  of  Cesarini ;  for  the  disappointed  author 
could  not  forgive  the  successful  one. 

"And  how  long  shall  you  stay  in  London?" 

"Some  months." 

"Send  for  your  luggage,  and  be  my  guest." 

"No;  I  have  taken  lodgings  that  suit  me.  I  am  formed  for 
solitude." 

"While  you  stay  here,  you  will,  however,  go  into  the 
world." 

15 


226  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

"Yes,  I  have  some  letters  of  introduction,  and  I  hear  that 
the  English  can  honour  merit,  even  in  an  Italian." 

"  You  hear  the  truth,  and  it  will  amuse  you,  at  least,  to  see 
our  eminent  men.  They  will  receive  you  most  hospitably. 
Let  me  assist  you  as  a  cicerone." 

"  Oh,  your  valuable  time !  " 

"Is  at  your  disposal;  but  where  are  you  going?  " 

"  It  is  Sunday,  and  I  have  had  my  curiosity  excited  to  hear 

a  celebrated  preacher,  Mr.  ,  who,  they  tell  me,  is  now 

more  talked  of  than  any  author  in  London." 

"They  tell  you  truly;  I  will  go  with  you, — I  myself  have 
not  yet  heard  him,  but  proposed  to  do  so  this  very  day." 

"Are  you  not  jealous  of  a  man  so  much  spoken  of?" 

"Jealous!  Why,  I  never  set  up  for  a  popular  preacher, — 
ce  n' est  pas  mon  metier  !  " 

"If  I  were  a  successful  author,  I  should  be  jealous  if  the 
dancing-dogs  were  talked  of." 

"No,  my  dear  Cesarini,  I  am  sure  you  would  not.  You  are 
a  little  irritated  at  present  by  natural  disappointment;  but 
the  man  who  has  as  much  success  as  he  deserves,  is  never 
morbidly  jealous,  even  of  a  rival  in  his  own  line.  Want  of 
success  sours  us;  but  a  little  sunshine  smiles  away  the  va- 
pours.    Come,  we  have  no  time  to  lose." 

Maltravers  took  his  hat,  and  the  two  young  men  bent  their 

way   to  Chapel.      Cesarini  still  retained  the  singular 

fashion  of  his  dress,  though  it  was  now  made  of  handsomer 
materials,  and  worn  with  more  coxcombry  and  pretension. 
He  had  much  improved  in  person;  had  been  admired  in 
Paris,  and  told  that  he  looked  like  a  man  of  genius ;  and  with 
his  black  ringlets  flowing  over  his  shoulders,  his  long  mus- 
tache, his  broad,  Spanish-shaped  hat,  and  eccentric  garb,  he 
certainly  did  not  look  like  other  people.  He  smiled  with 
contempt  at  the  plain  dress  of  his  companion.  "I  see,"  said 
he,  "that  you  follow  the  fashion,  and  look  as  if  you  passed 
your  life  with  elegans  instead  of  students.  I  wonder  you 
condescend  to  such  trifles  as  fashionably  shaped  hats  and 
coats." 

"It  would  be  worse  trifling  to  set  up  for  originality  in  hats 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  227 

and  coats,  at  least  in  sober  England.  I  was  born  a  gentle- 
man, and  I  dress  my  outward  frame  like  others  of  my  order. 
Because  I  am  a  writer,  why  should  I  affect  to  be  different 
from  other  men?" 

"I  see  that  you  are  not  above  the  weakness  of  your  country- 
man Congreve,"  said  Cesarini,  "avIio  deemed  it  finer  to  be  a 
gentleman  than  an  author." 

"  I  always  thought  that  anecdote  misconstrued.  Congreve 
had  a  proper  and  manly  pride,  to  my  judgment,  when  he  ex- 
pressed a  dislike  to  be  visited  merely  as  a  raree-show." 

"  But  is  it  policy  to  let  the  world  see  that  an  author  is  like 
other  people?  Would  he  not  create  a  deeper  personal  interest 
if  he  showed  that  even  in  person  alone  he  was  unlike  the 
herd?  He  ought  to  be  seen  seldom, —  not  to  stale  his  pres- 
ence,—  and  to  resort  to  the  arts  that  belong  to  the  royalty  of 
intellect  as  well  as  the  royalty  of  birth." 

"  I  dare  say  an  author,  by  a  little  charlatanism  of  that  na- 
ture, might  be  more  talked  of,  —  might  be  more  adored  in  the 
boarding-schools,  and  make  a  better  picture  in  the  exhibition. 
But  I  think,  if  his  mind  be  manly,  he  would  lose  in  self-re- 
spect at  every  quackery  of  the  sort.  And  my  philosophy  is, 
that  to  respect  oneself  is  worth  all  the  fame  in  the  world." 

Cesarini  sneered,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders;  it  was  quite 
evident  that  the  two  authors  had  no  sympathy  with  each  other. 

Thej'  arrived  at  last  at  the  chapel,  and  with  some  difficulty 
procured  seats. 

Presently  the  service  began.  The  preacher  was  a  man  of 
unquestionable  talent  and  fervid  eloquence;  but  his  theatrical 
arts,  his  affected  dress,  his  artificial  tones  and  gestures,  and, 
above  all,  the  fanatical  mummeries  which  he  introduced  into 
the  House  of  God,  disgusted  Maltravers,  while  they  charmed, 
entranced,  and  awed  Cesarini.  The  one  saw  a  mountebank 
and  impostor, —  the  other  recognized  a  profound  artist  and  an 
inspired  prophet. 

But  while  the  discourse  was  drawing  towards  a  close,  while 
the  preacher  was  in  one  of  his  most  eloquent  bursts, —  the 
ohs!  and  ahs!  of  which  were  the  grand  prelude  to  the  pa- 
thetic peroration, —  the  dim  outline  of  a  female  form  in  the 


228  ERXEST   MALTRAVERS. 

distance  riveted  the  eyes  and  absorbed  the  thoughts  of  Mal- 
travers.  The  chapel  was  darkened,  though  it  was  broad  day- 
light; and  the  face  of  the  person  that  attracted  Ernest's  at- 
tention was  concealed  by  her  head-dress  and  veil.  But  that 
bend  of  the  neck,  so  simply  graceful,  so  humbly  modest,  re- 
called to  his  heart  but  one  image.  Every  one  has,  perhaps, 
observed  that  there  is  a  physiognomy  (if  the  bull  may  be  par- 
doned) oi  form  as  well  as  face,  which  it  rarely  happens  that 
two  persons  possess  in  common.  And  this,  with  most,  is 
peculiarly  marked  in  the  turn  of  the  head,  the  outline  of  the 
shoulders,  and  the  ineffable  something  that  characterizes  the 
postures  of  each  individual  in  repose.  The  more  intently  he 
gazed,  the  more  firmly  Ernest  was  persuaded  that  he  saAv  be- 
fore him  the  long-lost,  the  never-to-be-forgotten  mistress  of 
his  boyish  days  and  his  first  love.  On  one  side  of  the  lady  in 
question  sat  an  elderly  gentleman,  whose  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
the  preacher;  on  the  other,  a  beautiful  little  girl,  with  long, 
fair  ringlets,  and  that  cast  of  featvires  which,  from  its  exqui- 
site delicacy  and  expressive  mildness  painters  and  poets  call 
the  "angelic."  These  persons  appeared  to  belong  to  the  same 
party.  Maltravers  literally  trembled,  so  great  were  his  im- 
patience and  agitation.  Yet  still,  the  dress  of  the  supposed 
likeness  of  Alice,  the  appearance  of  her  companions,  were  so 
evidently  above  the  ordinary  rank  that  Ernest  scarcely  ven- 
tured to  yield  to  the  suggestions  of  his  own  heart.  Was  it 
possible  that  the  daughter  of  Luke  Darvil,  thrown  upon  the 
wide  world,  could  have  risen  so  far  beyond  her  circumstances 
and  station?  At  length  the  moment  came  when  he  might  re- 
solve his  doubts ;  the  discourse  was  concluded,  the  extempo- 
raneous prayer  was  at  an  end,  the  congregation  broke  up,  and 
Maltravers  pushed  his  way  as  well  as  he  could  through  the 
dense  and  serried  crowd.  But  every  moment  some  vexatious 
obstruction,  in  the  shape  of  a  fat  gentleman  or  three  close- 
wedged  ladies,  intercepted  his  progress.  He  lost  sight  of  the 
party  in  question  amidst  the  profusion  of  tall  bonnets  and 
waving  plumes.  He  arrived  at  last,  breathless  and  pale  as 
death  (so  great  was  the  struggle  within  him),  at  the  door  of 
the  chapel.     He  arrived  in  time  to  see  a  plain  carriage,  with 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  229 

servants  in  gray  undress  liveries,  driving  from  the  porch,  and 
caught  a  glimpse,  within  the  vehicle,  of  the  golden  ringlets 
of  a  child.  He  darted  forward,  he  threw  himself  almost  be- 
fore the  horses.  The  coachman  drew  in,  and  with  an  angry 
exclamation  very  much  like  an  oath  whipped  his  horses  aside 
and  went  off.  But  that  momentary  pause  sufl&ced.  "It  is 
she,  it  is!  Oh,  Heaven,  it  is  Alice!"  murmured  Maltravers. 
The  whole  place  reeled  before  his  eyes,  and  he  clung,  over- 
powered and  unconscious,  to  a  neighbouring  lamp-post  for 
support.  But  he  recovered  himself  with  an  agonizing  effort 
as  the  thought  struck  upon  his  heart  that  he  was  about  to 
lose  sight  of  her  again  forever,  and  he  rushed  forward,  like 
one  frantic,  in  pursuit  of  the  carriage.  But  there  was  a  vast 
crowd  of  other  carriages,  besides  stream  upon  stream  of  foot- 
passengers,  for  the  great  and  the  gay  resorted  to  that  place  of 
worship  as  a  fashionable  excitement  in  a  dull  day;  and  after 
a  weary  and  a  dangerous  chase,  in  which  he  had  been  nearly- 
run  over  three  times,  Maltravers  halted  at  last,  exhausted 
and  in  despair.  Every  succeeding  Sunday,  for  months,  he 
went  to  the  same  chapel,  but  in  vain;  in  vain,  too,  he  re- 
sorted to  every  public  haunt  of  dissipation  and  amusement. 
Alice  Darvil  he  beheld  no  more ! 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Tell  me,  sir. 
Have  you  cast  up  your  state,  rated  your  land, 
And  find  it  able  to  endure  the  charge  1 

The  Noble  Gentleman. 

By  degrees,  as  Maltravers  sobered  down  from  the  first  shock 
of  that  unexpected  meeting,  and  from  the  prolonged  disap- 
pointment that  followed  it,  he  became  sensible  of  a  strange 
kind  of  happiness  or  contentment.  Alice  was  not  in  poverty, 
she  was  not  eating  the  unhallowed  bread  of  vice,  or  earning 


230  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

the  bitter  wages  of  laborious  penury.  He  saw  her  in  reputa- 
ble, nay,  opulent,  circumstances.  A  dark  nightmare,  that 
had  often,  amidst  the  pleasures  of  youth  or  the  triumphs  of 
literature,  weighed  upon  his  breast,  was  removed.  He  breathed 
more  freely,  he  could  sleep  in  peace.  His  conscience  could 
no  longer  say  to  him,  "  She  who  slept  upon  thy  bosom  is  a 
wanderer  upon  the  face  of  the  earth,  exposed  to  every  temp- 
tation, perishing  perhaps  for  want."  That  single  sight  of 
Alice  had  been  like  the  apparition  of  the  injured  Dead  con- 
jured up  at  Heraclea,  whose  sight  could  pacify  the  aggressor 
and  exorcise  the  spectres  of  remorse ;  he  was  reconciled  with 
himself,  and  walked  on  to  the  Future  with  a  bolder  step  and 
a  statelier  crest.  Was  she  married  to  that  staid  and  sober- 
looking  personage  whom  he  had  beheld  with  her?  Was  that 
child  the  offspring  of  their  union?  He  almost  hoped  so, — 
it  was  better  to  lose  than  to  destroy  her.  Poor  Alice !  could 
she  have  dreamed,  when  she  sat  at  his  feet  gazing  up  into  his 
eyes,  that  a  time  would  come  when  Maltravers  would  thank 
Heaven  for  the  belief  that  she  was  happy  with  another? 

Ernest  Maltravers  now  felt  a  new  man;  the  relief  of  con- 
science operated  on  the  efforts  of  his  genius.  A  more  buoy- 
ant and  elastic  spirit  entered  into  them, —  they  seemed  to 
breathe  as  with  a  second  youth. 

Meanwhile  Cesarini  threw  himself  into  the  fashionable 
world,  and  to  his  own  surprise  was  feted  and  caressed.  In 
fact,  Castruccio  was  exactly  the  sort  of  person  to  be  made  a 
lion  of.  The  letters  of  introduction  that  he  had  brought 
from  Paris  were  addressed  to  those  great  personages  in  Eng- 
land between  whom  and  personages  equally  great  in  France 
politics  makes  a  bridge  of  connection,  Cesarini  appeared  to 
them  as  an  accomplished  young  man,  brother-in-law  to  a  dis- 
tinguished member  of  the  French  Chamber.  Maltravers,  on 
the  other  hand,  introduced  him  to  the  literary  dilettanti  who 
admire  all  authors  that  are  not  rivals.  The  singular  costume 
of  Cesarini,  which  would  have  revolted  persons  in  an  Eng- 
lishman, enchanted  them  in  an  Italian.  He  looked,  they 
said,  like  a  poet.  Ladies  like  to  have  verses  written  to  them, 
and  Cesarini,  who  talked  very  little,  made  up  for  it  by  scrib- 


ERNEST  MALTRAYERS.  231 

bliug  eternally.  The  young  man's  head  soon  grew  filled  with 
comparisons  between  himself  in  London  and  Petrarch  at  Avig- 
non. As  he  had  always  thought  that  fame  was  in  the  gift  of 
lords  and  ladies,  and  had  no  idea  of  the  multitude,  he  fancied 
himself  already  famous;  and  since  one  of  his  strongest  feel- 
ings was  his  jealousy  of  Maltravers,  he  was  delighted  at  be- 
ing told  he  was  a  much  more  interesting  creature  than  that 
haughty  personage,  who  wore  his  neckcloth  like  other  people, 
and  had  not  even  those  indispensable  attributes  of  genius, — 
black  curls  and  a  sneer.  Fine  society,  which,  as  Madame  de 
Stael  well  says,  depraves  the  frivolous  mind  and  braces  the 
strong  one,  completed  the  ruin  of  all  that  was  manly  in 
Cesarini's  intellect.  He  soon  learned  to  limit  his  desire  of 
effect  or  distinction  to  gilded  saloons,  and  his  vanity  contented 
itself  upon  the  scraps  and  morsels  from  which  the  lion  heart 
of  true  ambition  turns  in  disdain.  But  this  was  not  all. 
Cesarini  was  envious  of  the  greater  affluence  of  Maltravers. 
His  own  fortune  was  in  a  small  capital  of  eight  or  nine  thou- 
sand pounds;  but  thrown  in  the  midst  of  the  wealthiest  soci- 
ety in  Europe,  he  could  not  bear  to  sacrifice  a  single  claim 
upon  its  esteem.  He  began  to  talk  of  the  satiety  of  wealth, 
and  young  ladies  listened  to  him  Avith  remarkable  interest 
when  he  did  so;  he  obtained  the  reputation  of  riches:  he  was 
too  vain  not  to  be  charmed  with  it.  He  endeavoured  to  main- 
tain the  claim  by  adopting  the  extravagant  excesses  of  the 
day.  He  bought  horses,  he  gave  away  jewels,  he  made  love 
to  a  marchioness  of  forty-two  who  was  very  kind  to  him  and 
very  fond  of  icarte,  he  gambled;  he  was  in  the  high  road  to 
destruction. 


BOOK    VI. 


Eifirois  av,  iis  6  xpt'c^s  ««  viko,  raSe 

UXovrelv  re  Tipirvov.  —  Euripides  .  Ion.  line  641. 

'  Perchance  you  say  that  gold 's  the  arch-exceUer, 
And  to  be  rich  is  sweet  ?  " 

.     .     .     Kilvo  5'  ovK  avaax^TOv 

EiKeiv  dSov  xaAoJyTa  to?j  KaKioicriv.  —  Ibid,  line  648. 

.    .    .  "  'T  is  not  to  be  endured, 

To  yield  our  trodden  path  and  turn  aside. 

Giving  our  place  to  knaves." 


CHAPTER  I. 

L'adresse  et  I'artifice  ont  passe  dans  mon  cceur ; 

Qu'on  a  sous  cet  habit  et  d'esprit  et  de  ruse.^  —  Regnard. 

It  "was  a  fine  morning  in  July  when  a  gentleman  who  had 
arrived  in  town  the  night  before,  after  an  absence  from  Eng- 
land of  several  years,  walked  slowly  and  musingly  up  the  su- 
perb thoroughfare  which  connects  the  Regent's  Park  with  St. 
James's. 

He  was  a  man  who,  with  great  powers  of  mind,  had  wasted 
his  youth  in  a  wandering,  vagabond  kind  of  life,  but  who  had 
worn  away  the  love  of  pleasure,  and  began  to  awaken  to  a 
sense  of  ambition. 

"It  is  astonishing  how  this  city  is  improved,"  said  he  to 
himself.  "Everything  gets  on  in  this  world  with  a  little  en- 
ergy and  bustle,  and  everybody  as  well  as  everything.     My 

1  "  Subtility  and  craft  have  taken  possession  of  my  heart ;  but  under  this 
habit  one  exhibits  both  shrewdness  and  wit." 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  233 

old  cronies,  fellows  not  half  so  clever  as  I  am,  are  all  doing 
well.  There's  Tom  Stevens,  my  very  fag  at  Eton, —  snivel- 
ling little  dog  he  was  too !  —  just  made  Under-Secretary  of 
State.  Pearson,  whose  longs  and  shorts  I  always  wrote,  is 
now  head-master  to  the  human  longs  and  shorts  of  a  public 
school, — editing  Greek  plays,  and  booked  for  a  bishopric. 
Collier,  1  see  by  the  papers,  is  leading  his  circuit,  and  Ernest 
Maltravers  (but  he  had  some  talent)  has  made  a  name  in  the 
world.  Here  am  I,  worth  them  all  put  together,  who  have 
done  nothing  but  spend  half  my  little  fortune  in  spite  of  all 
my  economy.  Egad !  this  must  have  an  end.  I  must  look  to 
the  main  chance;  and  yet,  just  when  I  want  his  help  the 
most,  my  worthy  uncle  thinks  fit  to  marry  again.  Humph, 
I  'm  too  good  for  this  world. " 

While  thus  musing,  the  soliloquist  came  in  direct  personal 
contact  with  a  tall  gentleman  who  carried  his  head  very  high 
in  the  air  and  did  not  appear  to  see  that  he  had  nearly  thrown 
our  abstracted  philosopher  off  his  legs. 

"Zounds,  sir,  what  do  you  mean?"  cried  the  latter. 

"  I  beg  your  par  —  "  began  the  other,  meekly,  when  his  arm 
was  seized,  and  the  injured  man  exclaimed, — 

"Bless  me,  sir,  is  it  indeed  you  whom  I  see?" 

"Ha!  Lumley?" 

"The  same;  and  how  fares  it,  my  dear  uncle?  I  did  not 
know  you  were  in  London.  I  only  arrived  last  night.  How 
well  you  are  looking!  " 

"Why,  yes.  Heaven  be  praised,  I  am  pretty  well." 

"And  happy  in  your  new  ties?  You  must  present  me  to 
Mrs.  Templeton." 

"  Ehem ! "  said  Mr.  Templeton,  clearing  his  throat,  and 
with  a  slight  but  embarrassed  smile,  "I  never  thought  I 
should  marry  again." 

"'L'homme  propose,  et  Dieu  dispose,'"  observed  Lumley 
Ferrers,  for  it  was  he. 

"Gently,  my  dear  nephew,"  replied  Mr.  Templeton,  gravely; 
"those  phrases  are  somewhat  sacrilegious, —  I  am  an  old- 
fashioned  person,  you  know." 

"Ten  thousand  apologies." 


234  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

"  One  apology  will  suffice ;  these  hyperboles  of  phrase  are 
almost  sinful." 

"Confounded  old  prig!"  thought  Ferrers j  but  he  bowed 
sanctimoniously. 

"  My  dear  uncle,  I  have  been  a  wild  fellow  in  my  daj^,  but 
with  years  comes  reflection;  and  under  your  guidance,  if  1 
may  hope  for  it,  I  trust  to  grow  a  wiser  and  a  better  man." 

"It  is  well,  Lumley,"  returned  the  uncle;  "and  I  am  very 
glad  to  see  you  returned  to  your  own  country.  Will  you  dine 
with  me  to-morrow?  I  am  living  near  Fulham.  You  had 
better  bring  your  carpet-bag,  and  stay  with  me  some  days; 
you  will  be  heartily  welcome,  especially  if  you  can  shift 
without  a  foreign  servant.  I  have  a  great  compassion  for 
papists,  but  —  " 

"  Oh,  my  dear  uncle,  do  not  fear !  I  am  not  rich  enough  to 
have  a  foreign  servant,  and  have  not  travelled  over  three 
quarters  of  the  globe  without  learning  that  it  is  possible  to 
dispense  with  a  valet." 

"As  to  being  rich  enough,"  observed  Mr.  Templeton,  with 
a  calculating  air,  "  seven  hundred  and  ninety -five  pounds  ten 
shillings  a  year  will  allow  a  man  to  keep  two  servants,  if  he 
pleases;  but  I  am  glad  to  find  you  economical,  at  all  events. 
We  meet  to-morrow,  then,  at  six  o'clock." 

"^M  revoir, —  I  mean,  God  bless  you." 

"Tiresome  old  gentleman  that,"  muttered  Ferrers,  "and 
not  so  cordial  as  formerly;  perhaps  his  wife  is  enceinte,  and 
he  is  going  to  do  me  the  injustice  of  having  another  heir.  I 
must  look  to  this;  for  without  riches,  I  had  better  go  back 
and  live  cm  clnquihne  at  Paris." 

With  this  conclusion,  Lumley  quickened  his  pace,  and  soon 
arrived  at  Seamore  Place.  In  a  few  moments  more  he  was  in 
the  library,  well  stored  with  books,  and  decorated  with  mar- 
ble busts  and  images  from  the  studios  of  Canova  and 
Thorwaldsen. 

"My  master,  sir,  will  be  down  immediately,"  said  the  ser- 
vant who  admitted  him;  and  Ferrers  threw  himself  on  a  sofa, 
and  contemplated  the  apartment  with  an  air  half  envious  and 
half  cynical. 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  235 

Presently  the  door  opened,  and  "  My  dear  Ferrers ! " 
"Well,  moii  chei',  how  are  you?"  were  the  salutations  hastily 
exchanged. 

After  the  first  sentences  of  inquiry,  gratulation,  and  wel- 
come had  cleared  the  way  for  more  general  conversation, 
"Well,  Maltravers,"  said  Ferrers,  "so  here  we  are  together 
again,  and  after  a  lapse  of  so  many  years !  Both  older,  cer- 
tainly; and  you,  I  suppose,  wiser.  At  all  events,  people 
think  you  so,  —  and  that 's  all  that's  important  in  the  ques- 
tion. Why,  man,  you  are  looking  as  young  as  ever,  only  a 
little  paler  and  thinner;  but  look  at  me, —  T  am  not  very 
viuch  past  thirty,  and  I  am  almost  an  old  man:  bald  at  the 
temples,  crows'  feet  too,  eh!     Idleness  ages  one  damnably." 

"Pooh!  Lumley,  I  never  saw  you  look  better.  And  are 
you  really  come  to  settle  in  England? " 

"Yes,  if  I  can  afford  it.  But  at  my  age,  and  after  having 
seen  so  much,  the  life  of  an  idle,  obscure  garqon  does  not  con- 
tent me.  I  feel  that  the  world's  opinion,  which  I  used  to  de- 
spise, is  growing  necessary  to  me.  I  want  to  be  something. 
What  can  I  be?  Don't  look  alarmed,  I  won't  rival  you.  I 
dare  say  literary  reputation  is  a  fine  thing,  but  I  desire  some 
distinction  more  substantial  and  worldly.  You  know  your 
own  county :  give  me  a  map  of  the  roads  to  Power. " 

"To  Power!     Oh,  nothing  but  law,  politics,  and  riches." 

"For  law  I  am  too  old;  politics,  perhaps,  might  suit  me: 
but  riches,  my  dear  Ernest,  —  ah,  how  I  long  for  a  good  ac- 
count with  my  banker !  " 

"Well,  patience  and  hope.  Are  you  not  a  rich  uncle's 
heir?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Ferrers,  very  dolorously;  "the  old 
gentleman  has  married  again,  and  may  have  a  family." 

"  Married !     To  whom  ?  " 

"A  widow,  I  hear.  I  know  nothing  more,  except  that  she 
has  a  child  already ;  so  you  see  she  has  got  into  a  cursed  way 
of  having  children.  And  perhaps  by  the  time  I  'm  forty,  I 
shall  see  a  whole  covey  of  cherubs  flying  away  with  the  great 
Templeton  property !  " 

"Ha,  ha!     Your  despair  sharpens  your  wit,  Lumley.     But 


236  ERNEST  MALTHA  VERS. 

why  not  take  a  leaf  out  of  your  uncle's  book,   and  marry 
yourself?  " 

"  So  I  will  when  I  can  find  an  heiress.  If  that  is  what  you 
meant  to  say,  it  is  a  more  sensible  suggestion  than  any  I 
could  have  supposed  to  come  from  a  man  who  writes  books, 
especially  poetry:  and  your  advice  is  not  to  be  despised. 
For  rich  I  will  be;  and  as  the  fathers  (I  don't  mean  of  the 
Church,  but  in  Horace)  told  of  the  rising  generation,  the  first 
thing  is  to  resolve  to  be  rich, —  it  is  only  the  second  thing  to 
consider  how." 

"Meanwhile,  Ferrers,  you  will  be  my  guest." 

"I  '11  dine  with  you  to-day;  but  to-morrow  I  am  off  to  Ful- 
ham  to  be  introduced  to  my  aunt.  Can't  you  fancy  her? 
Gray  gros-de-Naples  gown;  gold  chain  with  an  eye-glass; 
rather  fat;  two  pugs  and  a  parrot!  'Start  not,  this  is  fancy's 
sketch!'  I  have  not  yet  seen  the  respectable  relative  with 
my  physical  optics.  What  shall  we  have  for  dinner?  Let 
'nie  choose, — you  were  always  a  bad  caterer." 

As  Ferrers  thus  rattled  on,  Maltravers  felt  himself  growing 
younger;  old  times  and  old  adventures  crowded  fast  upon 
him,  and  the  two  friends  spent  a  most  agreeable  day  together. 
It  was  only  the  next  morning  that  Maltravers,  in  thinking 
over  the  various  conversations  that  had  passed  between  them, 
was  forced  reluctantly  to  acknowledge  that  the  inert  selfish- 
ness of  Lumley  Ferrers  seemed  now  to  have  hardened  into  a 
resolute  and  systematic  want  of  principle,  which  might,  per- 
haps, make  him  a  dangerous  and  designing  man,  if  urged  by 
circumstances  into  action. 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  237 


CHAPTER   II. 

Daupli.  Sir,  I  must  speak  to  you.  I  have  been  long  your  despised 
kinsman. 

Morose.     Oh !  what  thou  wilt,  nephew.  —  Epicene. 

Her  silence  is  dowry  eno',  —  exceedingly  soft  spoken  ;  thrifty  of  her  speech, 
that  spends  but  six  words  a  day.  — Epicene. 

The  coach  dropped  Mr.  Ferrers  at  the  gate  of  a  villa  about 
three  miles  from  town.  The  lodge-keeper  charged  himself 
with  the  carpet-bag,  and  Ferrers  strolled,  with  his  hands  be- 
hind him  (it  was  his  favourite  mode  of  disposing  of  them), 
through  the  beautiful  and  elaborate  pleasure-grounds. 

"  A  very  nice,  snug  little  box  (jointure-house,  I  suppose) ! 
I  would  not  grudge  that,  I  'm  sure,  if  I  had  but  the  rest. 
But  here,  I  suspect,  comes  madam's  first  specimen  of  the  art 
of  having  a  family."  This  last  thought  was  extracted  from 
Mr.  Ferrers's  contemplative  brain  by  a  lovely  little  girl,  who 
came  running  up  to  him,  fearless  and  spoilt  as  she  was,  and 
after  indulging  a  tolerable  stare,  exclaimed,  "Are  you  come 
to  see  Papa,  sir?" 

"Papa, —  the  deuce!"  thought  Lumley.  "And  who  is 
Papa,  my  dear?  " 

"Why,  Mamma's  husband.     He  is  not  my  Papa  by  rights." 

"Certainly  not,  my  love;  not  by  rights, —  I  comprehend." 

"Eh!" 

"Yes,  I  am  going  to  see  your  Papa  by  wrongs, — Mr. 
Templeton." 

"Oh!  this  way,  then." 

"You  are  very  fond  of  Mr.  Templeton,  my  little  angel?" 

"To  be  sure  I  am.  You  have  not  seen  the  rocking-horse  he 
is  going  to  give  me." 

"Not  yet,  sweet  child!     And  how  is  Mamma?" 

"Oh,  poor  dear  Mamma!"  said  the  child,  with  a  sudden 
change  of  voice,  and  tears  in  her  eyes.    "  Ah,  she  is  not  well !  " 


238  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

"  In  the  family  way,  to  a  dead  certainty !  "  muttered  Ferrers, 
with  a  groan;  "but  here  is  my  uncle.  Horrid  name!  Uncles 
were  always  wicked  fellows.  Kichard  the  Third  and  the  man 
who  did  something  or  other  to  the  babes  in  the  wood  were  a 
joke  to  my  hard-hearted  old  relation,  who  has  robbed  me  with 
a  widow !  The  lustful,  lickerish  old  —  My  dear  sir,  I  'm  so 
glad  to  see  you!  " 

Mr.  Tempi eton,  who  was  a  man  very  cold  in  his  manners, 
and  always  either  looked  over  people's  heads  or  down  upon 
the  ground,  just  touched  his  nephew's  outstretched  hand,  and 
telling  him  he  was  welcome,  observed  that  it  was  a  very  line 
afternoon. 

"  Very,  indeed.  Sweet  place,  this !  You  see,  by  the  way, 
that  I  have  already  made  acquaintance  with  my  fair  cousin- 
in-law.     She  is  very  pretty." 

"I  really  think  she  is,"  said  Mr.  Templeton,  with  some 
warmth,  and  gazing  fondly  at  the  child,  who  was  now  throw- 
ing buttercups  up  in  the  air,  and  trying  to  catch  them.  Mr. 
Ferrers  wished  in  his  heart  that  they  had  been  brickbats ! 

"Is  she  like  her  mother?"  asked  the  nephew 

"Like  whom,  sir?" 

"Her  mother,— Mrs.  Templeton." 

"No,  not  very;  there  is  an  air,  perhaps,  but  the  likeness  is 
not  remarkably  strong.  Would  you  not  like  to  go  to  your 
room  before  dinner?  " 

"Thank  you.     Can  I  not  first  be  presented  to  Mrs.  Tem— " 

"She  is  at  her  devotions,  Mr.  Lumley,"  interrupted  Mr. 
Templeton,  grimly. 

"The  she-hypocrite!"  thought  Ferrers.  "Oh,  I  am  de- 
lighted that  your  pious  heart  has  found  so  congenial  a  help- 
mate !  " 

"  It  is  a  great  blessing,  and  I  am  grateful  for  it.  This  is 
the  way  to  the  house." 

^  Lumley,  now  formally  installed  in  a  grave  bedroom,  with 
dimity  curtains  and  dark-brown  paper  with  light-brown  stars 
on  it,  threw  himself  into  a  large  chair,  and  yawned  and 
stretched  with  as  much  fervour  as  if  he  could  have  yawned 
and  stretched  himself  into  his  uncle's  property.      He  then 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  239 

slowly  exchanged  his  morning  dress  for  a  quiet  suit  of  black, 
and  thanked  his  stars  that,  amidst  all  his  sins,  he  had  never 
been  a  dandy,  and  had  never  rejoiced  in  a  fine  waistcoat, —  a 
criminal  possession  that  he  well  knew  would  have  entirely 
hardened  his  uncle's  conscience  against  him.  He  tarried  in 
his  room  till  the  second  bell  summoned  him  to  descend;  and 
then,  entering  the  drawing-room,  which  had  a  cold  look  even 
in  July,  found  his  uncle  standing  by  the  mantelpiece,  and  a 
young,  slight,  handsome  woman  half-buried  in  a  huge  but  not 
comfortable  fauteuil. 

"Your  aunt,  Mrs.  Templeton,  —  madam,  my  nephew,  Mr. 
Lumley  Ferrers, "  said  Templeton,  with  a  wave  of  the  hand. 
''John,  dinner! " 

"  I  hope  I  am  not  late !  " 

"No,"  said  Templeton,  gently,  for  he  had  always  liked  his 
nephew,  and  began  now  to  thaw  towards  him  a  little  on  see- 
ing that  Lumley  put  a  good  face  upon  the  new  state  of  affairs. 

"No,  my  dear  boy,  no;  but  I  think  order  and  punctuality 
cardinal  virtues  in  a  well-regulated  family." 

"Dinner,  sir,"  said  the  butler,  opening  the  folding-doors  at 
the  end  of  the  room. 

"Permit  me,"  said  Lumley,  offering  his  arm  to  his  aunt. 
"What  a  lovely  place  this  is!  " 

Mrs.  Templeton  said  something  in  reply,  but  what  it  was, 
Ferrers  could  not  discover,  so  low  and  choked  was  the  voice. 

"Shy,"  thought  he,— "odd  for  a  widow!  But  that 's  the 
way  those  husband-buriers  take  us  in!  " 

Plain  as  was  the  general  furniture  of  the  apartment,  the 
natural  ostentation  of  Mr.  Templeton  broke  out  in  the  mas- 
sive value  of  the  plate  and  the  number  of  the  attendants.  He 
was  a  rich  man,  and  he  was  proud  of  his  riches;  he  knew  it 
was  respectable  to  be  rich,  and  he  thought  it  was  moral  to  be 
respectable.  As  for  the  dinner,  Lumley  knew  enough  of  his 
uncle's  tastes  to  be  prepared  for  viands  and  wines  that  even 
he  (fastidious  gourmand  as  he  was)  did  not  despise. 

Between  the  intervals  of  eating,  Mr.  Ferrers  endeavoured 
to  draw  his  aunt  into  conversation;  but  he  found  all  his  in- 
genuity fail  him.     There  was  in  the  features  of  Mrs.  Tern- 


240  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

pleton  an  expression  of  deep  but  calm  melanclioly  that  would 
have  saddened  most  persons  to  look  upon,  especially  in  one 
so  young  and  lovely.  It  was  evidently  something  beyond 
shyness  or  reserve  that  made  her  so  silent  and  subdued, 
and  even  in  her  silence  there  was  so  much  natural  sweetness 
that  Ferrers  could  not  ascribe  her  manner  to  haughtiness 
or  the  desire  to  repel.  He  was  rather  puzzled.  "For 
though,"  thought  he,  sensibly  enough,  "my  uncle  is  not  a 
youth,  he  is  a  very  rich  fellow;  and  how  any  widow  who  is 
married  again  to  a  rich  old  fellow  can  be  melancholy,  passes 
my  understanding ! " 

Templeton,  as  if  to  draw  attention  from  his  wife's  taci- 
turnity, talked  more  than  usual.  He  entered  largely  into 
politics,  and  regretted  that  in  times  so  critical  he  was  not  in 
parliament. 

"Did  I  possess  your  youth  and  your  health,  Lumley,  I 
would  not  neglect  my  country.     Popery  is  abroad." 

"I  myself  should  like  very  much  to  be  in  parliament," 
said  Lumley,  boldly. 

"I  dare  say  you  would,"  returned  the  uncle,  dryly.  "Parli- 
ament is  very  expensive, —  only  fit  for  those  who  have  a  large 
stake  in  the  country.     Champagne  to  Mr.  Ferrers." 

Lumley  bit  his  lip,  and  spoke  little  during  the  rest  of  the 
dinner.  Mr.  Templeton,  however,  waxed  gracious  by  the 
time  the  dessert  was  on  the  table,  and  began  cutting  up  a 
pineapple,  with  many  assurances  to  Lumley  that  gardens 
were  nothing  without  pineries.  "Whenever  you  settle  in  the 
country,  nephew,  be  sure  you  have  a  pinery." 

"Oh,  yes!"  said  Lumley,  almost  bitterly;  "and  a  pack  of 
hounds,  and  a  French  cook,  —  they  will  all  suit  my  fortune 
very  well." 

"You  are  more  choughtfnl  on  pecuniary  matters  than  you 
used  to  be,"  said  the  uncle. 

"Sir,"  replied  Ferrers,  solemnly,  "in  a  very  short  time  I 
shall  be  what  is  called  a  middle-aged  man." 

"  Humph !  "  said  the  host. 

There  was  another  silence.  Lumley  was  a  man,  as  we  have 
said  or  implied  before,  of  great  knowledge  of  human  nature, 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  241 

—  at  least  the  ordinary  sort  of  it, —  and  he  now  revolved  in  his 
mind  the  various  courses  it  might  be  wise  to  pursue  towards 
his  rich  relation.  He  saw  that,  in  delicate  fencing,  his  uncle 
had  over  him  the  same  advantage  that  a  tall  man  has  over  a 
short  one  with  the  physical  sword-play:  by  holding  his 
weapon  in  a  proper  position,  he  kept  the  other  at  arm's 
length.  There  was  a  grand  reserve  and  dignity  about  the 
man  who  had  something  to  give  away,  of  which  Ferrers,  how- 
ever actively  he  might  shift  his  ground  and  flourish  his 
rapier,  could  not  break  the  defence.  He  determined,  there- 
fore, upon  a  new  game,  for  which  his  frankness  of  manner 
admirably  adapted  him.  Just  as  he  formed  this  resolution, 
Mrs.  Templeton  rose,  and  with  a  gentle  bow  and  soft  though 
languid  smile,  glided  from  the  room.  The  two  gentlemen 
resettled  themselves,  and  Templeton  pushed  the  bottle  to 
Ferrers. 

"Help  yourself,  Lumley!  Your  travels  seem  to  have  de- 
prived you  of  your  high  spirits,  —  you  are  pensive." 

"Sir,"  said  Ferrers,  abruptly,  "1  wish  to  consult  you." 

"Oh,  young  man!  you  have  been  guilty  of  some  excess,  you 
have  gambled,  you  have  —  " 

"  I  have  done  nothing,  sir,  that  should  make  me  less  worthy 
your  esteem.  I  repeat,  I  wish  to  consult  you;  I  have  out- 
lived the  hot  days  of  my  youth, —  I  am  now  alive  to  the 
claims  of  the  world.  I  have  talents,  I  believe;  and  I  have 
application,  I  know.  I  wish  to  fill  a  position  in  the  world 
that  may  redeem  my  past  indolence  and  do  credit  to  my  fam- 
ily. Sir,  I  set  your  example  before  me,  and  I  now  ask  your 
counsel,  with  the  determination  to  follow  it." 

Templeton  was  startled;  he  half  shaded  his  face  with  his 
hand,  and  gazed  searchingly  upon  the  high  forehead  and  bold 
eyes  of  his  nephew.  "I  believe  you  are  sincere,"  said  he, 
after  a  pause. 

"You  may  well  believe  so,  sir." 

"Well,  I  will  think  of  this.  I  like  an  honourable  ambition, 
not  too  extravagant  a  one, —  that  is  sinful;  but  a  respectable 
station  in  the  world  is  a  proper  object  of  desire,  and  wealth 
is  a  blessing,  because,"  added  the  rich  man,  taking  another 

16 


242  ERXEST   MALTRAVERS. 

slice  of  the  pineapple,  "it  enables  us  to  be  of  use  to  our 
fellow-creatures ! " 

"Sir,  tlien,"  said  Ferrers,  with  daring  animation, —  "then 
I  avow  that  my  ambition  is  precisely  of  the  kind  you  speak 
of.  I  am  obscure, —  I  desire  to  be  reputably  known;  my  for- 
tune is  mediocre, —  I  desire  it  to  be  great.  I  ask  you  for  noth- 
ing,—  I  know  your  generous  heart;  but  I  wish  independently 
to  work  out  my  own  career." 

"  Lumley,"  said  Templeton,  "I  never  esteemed  you  so  much 
as  I  do  now.  Listen  to  me,  —  I  will  confide  in  you;  I  think 
the  Government  are  under  obligations  to  me." 

"I  know  it,"  exclaimed  Ferrers,  whose  eyes  sparkled  at  the 
thought  of  a  sinecure;  for  sinecures  then  existed! 

"And,"  pursued  the  uncle,  "I  intend  to  ask  them  a  favour 
in  return." 

"Oh,  sir!" 

"  Yes ;  I  think  —  mark  me  —  with  management  and  address, 
I  may  —  " 

"  Well,  my  dear  sir !  " 

"  Obtain  a  barony  for  myself  and  heirs ;  I  trust  I  shall  soon 
have  a  family!  " 

Had  somebody  given  Lumley  Ferrers  a  hearty  cuff  on  the 
ear,  he  would  have  thought  less  of  it  than  of  this  wind-up  of 
his  uncle's  ambitious  projects.  His  jaws  fell,  his  ej^es  grew 
an  inch  larger,  and  he  remained  perfectly  speechless. 

"Ay,"  pursued  Mr.  Templeton,  "I  have  long  dreamed  of 
this ;  my  character  is  spotless,  my  fortune  great.  1  have  ever 
exerted  my  parliamentary  influence  in  favour  of  ministers, 
and  in  this  commercial  country  no  man  has  higher  claims 
than  Richard  Templeton  to  the  honours  of  a  virtuous,  loyal, 
and  religious  State.  Yes,  my  boy,  I  like  your  ambition, — 
you  see  I  have  some  of  it  myself:  and  since  you  are  sincere  in 
your  wish  to  tread  in  my  footsteps,  I  think  I  can  obtain  you 
a  junior  partnership  in  a  highly  respectable  establishment. 
Let  me  see;    your  capital  now  is  — " 

"Pardon  me,  sir,"  interrupted  Lumley,  colouring  with  in- 
dignation despite  himself,  "  T  honour  commerce  much,  but  my 
paternal  relations  are  not  such  as  would  allow  me  to  enter 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  243 

into  tr.ade.  And  permit  me  to  add,"  continued  he,  seizing 
with  instant  adroitness  the  new  weakness  presented  to  him, — 
"  permit  me  to  add  that  those  relations  who  have  been  ever 
kind  to  me  would,  properly  managed,  be  highly  efficient  in 
promoting  your  own  views  of  advancement;  for  your  sake  I 
would  not  break  with  them.  Lord  Saxingham  is  still  a  min- 
ister,—  nay,  he  is  in  the  Cabinet." 

"  Hem  —  Lumley  —  hem !  "  said  Templeton,  thoughtfully ; 
"we  will  consider,  we  will  consider.     Any  more  wine?" 

"No,  I  thank  you,  sir." 

"Then  1  '11  just  take  my  evening  stroll  and  think  over  mat- 
ters.    You  can  rejoin  Mrs.  Templeton.     And  I  say,  Lumley, 

—  I  read  prayers  at  nine  o'clock.  Never  forget  your  Maker, 
and  He  will  not  forget  you.  The  barony  will  be  an  excellent 
thing  —  eh?  —  an  English  peerage  —  yes  —  an  English  peer- 
age !    Very  different  from  your  beggarly  countships  abroad !  " 

So  saying,  Mr.  Templeton  rang  for  his  hat  and  cane,  and 
stepped  into  the  lawn  from  the  window  of  the  dining-room. 

"  'The  world  's  mine  oyster,  which  I  with  sword  will  open,'  " 
muttered  Ferrers.  "I  would  mould  this  selfish  old  man  to 
my  purpose;  for  since  I  have  neither  genius  to  write,  nor  elo- 
quence to  declaim,  I  will  at  least  see  whether  I  have  not  cun- 
ning to  plot  and  courage  to  act.     Conduct,  conduct,  conduct, 

—  there  lies  my  talent;  and  what  is  conduct  but  a  steady 
walk  from  a  design  to  its  execution?" 

With  these  thoughts  Ferrers  sought  Mrs.  Templeton.  He 
opened  the  folding-doors  very  gently,  for  all  his  habitual 
movements  were  quick  and  noiseless,  and  perceived  that  Mrs. 
Templeton  sat  by  the  window,  and  that  she  seemed  engrossed 
with  a  book  which  lay  open  on  a  little  work-table  before  her. 

"Fordyce's  'Advice  to  Young  Married  Women,'  I  suppose. 
Sly  jade!     However,  I  must  not  have  her  against  me." 

He  approached;  still  Mrs.  Templeton  did  not  note  him,  nor 
was  it  till  he  stood  facing  her  that  he  himself  observed  that 
her  tears  were  falling  fast  over  the  page. 

He  was  a  little  embarrassed,  and  turning  towards  the  win- 
dow, affected  to  cough,  and  then  said,  without  looking  at 
Mrs.  Templeton,  "I  fear  I  have  disturbed  you." 


244  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

"2To,"  ansTvered  the  same  low,  stifled  voice  that  had  before 
replied  to  Lumley's  vain  attempts  to  provoke  conversation; 
"  it  was  a  melancholy  employment,  and  perhaps  it  is  not  right 
to  indulge  in  it." 

"May  I  inquire  what  author  so  affected  you?" 

"  It  is  but  a  volume  of  poems,  and  I  am  no  judge  of  poetry ; 
but  it  contains  thoughts  which  —  which  —  "  Mrs.  Templeton 
paused  abruptly,  and  Lumley  quietly  took  up  the  book. 

"Ah!  "  said  he,  turning  to  the  titlepage,  "my  friend  ought 
to  be  much  flattered." 

"Your  friend?" 

"Yes;  this,  I  see,  is  by  Ernest  Maltravers,  —  a  very  inti- 
mate ally  of  mine." 

"I  should  like  to  see  him,"  cried  Mrs.  Templeton,  almost 
with  animation.  "  I  read  but  little ;  it  was  by  chance  that  I 
met  with  one  of  his  books,  and  they  are  as  if  I  heard  a  dear 
friend  speaking  to  me.     Ah,  I  should  like  to  see  him!  " 

"I'm  sure,  madam,"  said  the  voice  of  a  third  person,  in  an 
austere  and  rebuking  accent,  "  I  do  not  see  what  good  it  would 
do  your  immortal  soul  to  see  a  man  who  writes  idle  verses, 
which  appear  to  me,  indeed,  highly  immoral.  I  just  looked 
into  that  volume  this  morning,  and  found  nothing  but  trash, 

—  love-sonnets  and  such  stuff." 

.  Mrs.  Templeton  made  no  reply,  and  Lumley,  in  order  to 
change  the  conversation,  which  seemed  a  little  too  matrimo- 
nial for  his  taste,  said,  rather  awkwardly,  "  You  are  returned 
very  soon,  sir." 

"Yes,  I  don't  like  walking  in  the  rain! " 
"  Bless  me,  it  rains,  so  it  does !     I  had  not  observed  —  " 
"Are  you  wet,  sir?    Had  you  not  better  —  "  began  the  wife 
timidly. 

"Xo,  ma'am,  I'm  not  wet,  I  thank  you.  B3'  the  by, 
nephew,  this  new  author  is  a  friend  of  yours.  I  wonder  a 
man  01  his  family  should  condescend  to  turn  author.  He 
can  come  to  no  good.     I  hope  j'ou  will  drop  his  acquaintance, 

—  authors  are  very  unprofitable  associates,  I  'm  sure.     I  trust 
I  shall  see  no  more  of  Mr.  Maltravers's  books  in  my  house." 

"Nevertheless,  he  is  well  thought  of,   sir,  and   makes  no 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  245 

mean  figure  in  the  world, "  said  Lumley,  stoutly ;  for  he  was 
by  no  means  disposed  to  give  up  a  friend  who  might  be  as 
useful  to  him  as  Mr.  Templeton  himself. 

"Figure  or  no  figure,  I  have  not  had  many  dealings  with 
authors  in  my  day;  and  when  I  had  I  always  repented  it. 
Not  sound,  sir,  not  sound, — all  cracked  somewhere.  Mrs. 
Templeton,  have  the  kindness  to  get  the  Prayer-book.  My 
hassock  must  be  fresh  stuffed;  it  gives  me  quite  a  pain  in  my 
knee.  Lumley,  will  you  ring  the  bell?  Your  aunt  is  very 
melancholy.  True  religion  is  not  gloomy:  we  will  read  a 
sermon  on  Cheerfulness." 

"So,  so,"  said  Mr.  Ferrers  to  himself,  as  he  undressed  that 
night;  "I  see  that  my  uncle  is  a  little  displeased  with  my 
aunt's  pensive  face, —  a  little  jealous  of  her  thinking  of  any- 
thing but  himself;  tant  mieux.  I  must  work  upon  this  dis- 
covery; it  will  not  do  for  them  to  live  too  happily  with  each 
other.  And  what  with  that  lever,  and  what  with  his  ambi- 
tious projects,  I  think  I  see  a  way  to  push  the  good  things  of 
this  world  a  few  inches  nearer  to  Lumley  Ferrers." 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  pride,  too,  of  her  step,  as  light 

Along  the  unconscious  earth  she  went, 
Seemed  that  of  one  born  with  a  right 

To  walk  some  heavenlier  element.  — Loves  of  the  Angels. 

Can  it  be 
That  these  fine  impulses,  these  lofty  thoughts 
Burning  with  their  own  beauty,  are  but  given 
To  make  me  the  low  slave  of  vanity  ?  —  Erinna. 

Is  she  not  too  fair 
Even  to  think  of  maiden's  sweetest  care  ? 
The  mouth  and  brow  are  contrasts.  —  Erinna. 

It  was  two  or  three  evenings  after  the  date  of  the  last  chap- 
ter, and  there  was  what  the  newspapers  call  "  a  select  party  " 
in  one  of  the  noblest  mansions  in  London.     A  young  lady, 


246  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

on  whom  all  eyes  were  bent,  and  whose  beauty  might  have 
served  the  painter  for  a  model  of  Semiramis  or  Zenobia,  more 
majestic  than  became  her  years,  and  so  classically  faultless  as 
to  have  something  cold  and  statue-like  in  its  haughty  linea- 
ments, was  moving  through  the  crowd  that  murmured  ap- 
plauses as  she  passed.  This  lady  was  Florence  Lascelles,  the 
daughter  of  Lumley's  great  relation,  the  Earl  of  Saxingham, 
and  supposed  to  be  the  richest  heiress  in  England.  Lord 
Saxingham  himself  drew  aside  his  daughter  as  she  swept 
along. 

"Elorence,"  said   he  in  a  whisper,    "the  Duke  of is 

greatly  struck  with  you:  be  civil  to  him;  I  am  about  to 
present  him." 

So  saying,  the  earl  turned  to  a  small,  dark,  stiff-looking 
man  of  about  twenty-eight  years  of  age,  at  his  left,  and  in- 
troduced the  Duke  of to  Lady  Florence  Lascelles.     The 

duke  was  unmarried:  it  was  an  introduction  between  the 
greatest  match  and  the  wealthiest  heiress  in  the  peerage. 

"Lady  Florence,"  said  Lord  Saxingham,  "is  as  fond  of 
horses  as  yourself,  Duke,  though  not  quite  so  good  a  judge." 

"I  confess  I  do  like  horses,"  said  the  duke,  with  an  ingenu- 
ous air. 

Lord  Saxingham  moved  away. 

Lady  Florence  stood  mute;  one  glance  of  bright  contempt 
shot  from  her  large  eyes,  her  lip  slightly  curled,  and  she  then 
half  turned  aside,  and  seemed  to  forget  that  her  new  acquaint- 
ance was  in  existence. 

His  Grace,  like  most  great  personages,  was  not  apt  to  take 
offence,  nor  could  he,   indeed,   ever  suppose  that  any  slight 

towards  the  Duke  of could  be  intended;  still,  he  thought 

it  would  be  proper  in  Lady  Florence  to  begin  the  conversa- 
tion, for  he  himself,  though  not  shy,  was  habitually  silent, 
and  accustomed  to  be  saved  the  fatigue  of  defraying  the  small 
charges  of  society.  After  a  pause,  seeing,  however,  that  Lady 
Florence  remained  speechless,  he  began, — 

"You  ride  sometimes  in  the  Park,  Lady  Florence?" 

"Very  seldom." 

"It  is,  indeed,  too  warm  for  riding  at  present." 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  247 

"I  did  not.  say  so." 

"  Hem !     I  thought  you  did." 

Another  pause. 

"Did  you  speak,  Lady  Florence?" 

"No." 

"  Oh,  I  beg  pardon !    Lord  Saxingham  is  looking  very  well." 

"I  am  glad  you  think  so." 

"Your  picture  in  the  exhibition  scarcely  does  you  justice. 
Lady  Florence;  yet  Lawrence  is  usually  happy." 

"You  are  very  flattering,"  said  Lady  Florence,  with  a  lively 
and  perceptible  impatience  in  her  tone  and  manner.  The 
young  beauty  was  thoroughly  spoilt,  and  now  all  the  scorn 
of  a  scornful  nature  was  drawn  forth  by  observing  the  envious 

eyes  of  the  crowd  were  bent  upon  one  whom  the  Duke  of 

was  actually  talking  to.  Brilliant  as  were  her  own  powers  of 
conversation,  she  would  not  deign  to  exert  them;  she  was  an 
aristocrat  of  intellect  rather  than  birth,  and  she  took  it  into 
her  head  that  the  duke  was  an  idiot.  She  was  very  much 
mistaken.  If  she  had  but  broken  up  the  ice,  she  would  have 
found  that  the  water  below  was  not  shallow.  The  duke,  in 
fact,  like  many  other  Englishmen,  though  he  did  not  like  the 
trouble  of  showing  forth,  and  had  an  ungainly  manner,  was  a 
man  who  had  read  a  good  deal,  possessed  a  sound  head  and 
an  honourable  mind,  though  he  did  not  know  what  it  was  to 
love  anybody,  to  care  much  for  anything,  and  was  at  once 
perfectly  sated  and  yet  perfectly  contented;  for  apathy  is  the 
combinaton  of  satiety  and  content. 

Still,  Florence  judged  of  him  as  lively  persons  are  apt  to 
judge  of  the  sedate,  —  besides,  she  wanted  to  proclaim  to  him 
and  to  everybody  else  how  little  she  cared  for  dukes  and  great 
matches ;  she  therefore,  with  a  slight  inclination  of  her  head, 
turned  away,  and  extended  her  hand  to  a  dark  young  man, 
who  was  gazing  on  her  with  that  respectful  but  unmistakable 
admiration  which  proud  women  are  never  proud  enough  to 
despise. 

"Ah,  signor,"  said  she,  in  Italian,  "  I  am  so  glad  to  see 
you!  It  is  a  relief  indeed  to  find  genius  in  a  crowd  of 
nothings." 


248  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

So  saying,  the  heiress  seated  herself  on  one  of  those  con- 
venient couches  Avhich  hold  but  two,  and  beckoned  the  Italian 
to  her  side.  Oh,  how  the  vain  heart  of  Castruccio  Cesarini 
beat;  what  visions  of  love,  rank,  wealth,  already  flitted  be- 
fore him! 

"I  almost  fancy,"  said  Castruccio,  "that  the  old  days  of  ro- 
mance are  returned,  when  a  queen  could  turn  from  princes 
and  warriors  to  listen  to  a  troubadour." 

"  Troubadours  are  now  more  rare  than  warriors  and  princes, " 
replied  Florence,  with  gay  animation,  which  contrasted 
strongly  with  the  coldness  she  had  manifested  to  the  Duke  of 

,  "  and  therefore  it  would  not  now  be  a  very  great  merit 

in  a  queen  to  fly  from  dulness  and  insipidity  to  poetry  and 
wit." 

"Ah!  say  not  wit,"  said  Cesarini;  "wit  is  incompatible 
with  the  grave  character  of  deep  feelings, —  incompatible  with 
enthusiasm,  with  worship;  incompatible  with  the  thoughts 
that  wait  upon  Lady  Florence  Lascelles." 

Florence  coloured  and  slightly  frowned;  but  the  immense 
distinction  between  her  position  and  that  of  the  young  for- 
eigner, with  her  own  inexperience  both  of  real  life  and  the 
presumption  of  vain  hearts,  made  her  presently  forget  the 
flattery  that  would  have  oifended  her  in  another.  She  turned 
the  conversation,  however,  into  general  channels,  and  she 
talked  of  Ita,lian  poetry  with  a  warmth  and  eloquence  worthy 
of  the  theme.  While  they  thus  conversed,  a  new  guest  had 
arrived,  who  from  the  spot  where  he  stood,  engaged  with  Lord 
Saxingham,  fixed  a  steady  and  scrutinizing  gaze  upon  the 
pair. 

"Lady  Florence  has  indeed  improved,"  said  this  new  guest. 
"  I  could  not  have  conceived  that  England  boasted  any  one 
half  so  beautiful." 

"She  certainly  is  handsome,  my  dear  Lumley, — the  Las- 
celles cast  of  countenance,"  replied  Lord  Saxingham;  "and 
so  gifted!  She  is  positively  learned;  quite  a  bas  bleu.  I 
tremble  to  think  of  the  crowd  of  poets  and  painters  who  will 
make  a  fortune  out  of  her  enthusiasm.  Entre  nous,  Lumley, 
I  could  wish  her  married  to  a  man  of  sober  sense  like  the 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  249 

Duke  of ;    for  sober  sense   is  exactly   what  she  wants. 

Do  observe,  she  has  been  sitting  just  half  an  hour  flirting 
with  that  odd-looking  adventurer,  a  Signor  Cesarini,  merely 
because  he  writes  sonnets  and  wears  a  dress  like  a  stage- 
player  !  " 

*'It  is  the  weakness  of  the  sex,  my  dear  lord,"  said  Lumley ; 
"  they  like  to  patronize,  and  they  dote  upon  all  oddities,  from 
China  monsters  to  cracked  poets.  But  I  fancy,  by  a  restless 
glance  cast  every  now  and  then  around  the  room,  that  my 
beautiful  cousin  has  in  her  something  of  the  coquette." 

"  There  you  are  quite  right,  Lumley, "  returned  Lord  Sax- 
ingliam,  laughing;  "but  I  will  not  quarrel  Avith  her  for  break- 
ing hearts  and  refusing  hands  if  she  do  but  grow  steady  at 
last  and  settle  into  the  Duchess  of ." 

"Duchess  of  !"  repeated  Lumley,  absently;   "well,  I 

will  go  and  present  myself.  I  see  she  is  growing  tired  of  the 
signor.  I  will  sound  her  as  to  the  ducal  impressions,  my 
dear  lord." 

"Do, —  /dare  not,"  replied  the  father;  "she  is  an  excellent 
girl,  but  heiresses  are  always  contradictory.  It  was  very 
foolish  to  deprive  me  of  all  control  over  her  fortune.  Come 
and  see  me  again  soon,  Lumley.  I  suppose  you  are  going 
abroad?" 

"No,  I  shall  settle  in  England;  but  of  my  prospects  and 
plans  more  hereafter." 

With  this,  Lumley  quietly  glided  away  to  Florence.  There 
was  something  in  Ferrers  that  was  remarkable  from  its  very 
simplicity.  His  clear,  sharp  features,  with  the  short  hair 
and  high  brow,  the  absolute  plainness  of  his  dress,  and  the 
noiseless,  easy,  self-collected  calm  of  all  his  motions,  made  a 
strong  contrast  to  the  showy  Italian  by  whose  side  he  now 
stood.  Florence  looked  up  at  him  with  some  little  surprise 
at  his  intrusion. 

"Ah,  you  don't  recollect  me!"  said  Lumley,  with  his 
pleasant  laugh.  "Faithless  Imogen,  after  all  your  vows  of 
constancy!     Behold  your  Alonzo! 

"  '  The  worms  they  crept  in,  and  the  worms  they  crept  out.' 


250  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

Don't  you  remember  how  you  trembled  when  I  told  you  that 
true  story  as  we  — 

" '  Conversed  as  we  sat  on  the  green  ?  ' " 

"  Oh ! "  cried  Florence,  "  it  is  indeed  you,  my  dear  cousin, 
my  dear  Lumley!     What  an  age  since  we  parted!  " 

"Don't  talk  of  age, —  it  is  an  ugly  word  to  a  man  of  my 
years.     Pardon,  signer,  if  I  disturb  you." 

And  here  Lumley,  with  a  low  bow,  slid  coolly  into  the  place 
which  Cesarini,  who  had  shyly  risen,  left  vacant  for  him. 
Castruccio  looked  disconcerted;  but  Florence  had  forgotten 
h-im  in  her  delight  at  seeing  Lumley,  and  Cesarini  moved 
discontentedly  away  and  seated  himself  at  a  distance. 

"And  I  come  back,"  continued  Lumley,  "to  find  you  a  con- 
firmed beauty  and  a  professional  coquette.     Don't  blush!  " 

"Do  they  indeed  call  me  a  coquette?  " 

"Oh,  yes!  for  once,  the  world  is  just." 

"Perhaps  I  do  deserve  the  reproach.  Oh,  Lumley,  how  I 
despise  all  that  I  see  and  hear !  " 

"What,  even  the  Duke  of ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  fear  even  the  Duke  of is  no  exception !  " 

"  Your  father  will  go  mad  if  he  hear  you. " 

"My  father,  my  poor  father!  Yes,  he  thinks  the  utmost 
that  I,  Florence  Lascelles,  am  made  for,  is  to  wear  a  ducal 
coronet  and  give  the  best  balls  in  London." 

"And  pray  what  was  Florence  Lascelles  made  for?" 

"Ah!  I  cannot  answer  the  question.  I  fear  for  Discontent 
and  Disdain." 

"You  are  an  enigma;  but  I  will  take  pains,  and  not  rest 
till  I  solve  you." 

"  I  defy  you. " 

"Thanks!     Better  defy  than  despise." 

"Oh!  you  must  be  strangely  altered  if  I  can  despise  yoii." 

"Indeed!  what  do  you  remember  of  me?" 

"  That  you  were  frank,  bold,  and  therefore,  I  suppose,  true ; 
that  you  shocked  my  avmts  and  my  father  by  your  contempt 
for  the  vulgar  hypocrisies  of  our  conventional  life.  Oh,  no ! 
I  cannot  despise  you." 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  251 

Lumley  raised  his  eyes  to  those  of  Florence ;  he  gazed  on 
her  long  and  earnestly:  ambitious  hopes  rose  high  within 
him. 

"My  fair  cousin,"  said  he,  in  an  altered  and  serious  tone, 
"I  see  something  in  your  spirit  kindred  to  mine;  and  I  am 
glad  that  yours  is  one  of  the  earliest  voices  which  confirm 
my  new  resolves  on  my  return  to  busy  England !  " 

"And  those  resolves?" 

"Are  an  Englishman's, — energetic  and  ambitious." 

"Alas,  ambition!  How  many  false  portraits  are  there  of 
the  great  original !  " 

Lumley  thought  he  had  found  a  clew  to  the  heart  of  his 
cousin,  and  he  began  to  expatiate,  with  unusual  eloquence, 
on  the  nobleness  of  that  daring  sin  which  "lost  angels 
heaven."  Florence  listened  to  him  with  attention,  but  not 
with  sympathy.  Lumley  was  deceived.  His  was  not  an  am- 
bition that  could  attract  the  fastidious  but  high-souled  Ideal- 
ist. The  selfishness  of  his  nature  broke  out  in  all  the 
sentiments  that  he  fancied  would  seem  to  her  most  elevated. 
Place,  power,  titles, —  all  these  objects  were  low  and  vulgar 
to  one  who  saw  them  daily  at  her  feet. 

At  a  distance  the  Duke  of continued  from  time  to  time 

to  direct  his  cold  gaze  at  Florence.  He  did  not  like  her  the 
less  for  not  seeming  to  court  him.  He  had  something  gener- 
ous within  him,  and  could  understand  her.  He  went  away 
at  last,  and  thought  seriously  of  Florence  as  a  wife.  Not  a 
wife  for  companionship,  for  friendship,  for  love,  but  a  wife 
who  could  take  the  trouble  of  rank  off  his  hands,  do  him  hon- 
our, and  raise  him  an  heir  whom  he  might  flatter  himself 
would  be  his  own. 

From  his  corner  also,  with  dreams  yet  more  vain  and  dar- 
ing, Castruccio  Cesarini  cast  his  eyes  upon  the  queen-like 
brow  of  the  great  heiress.  Oh,  yes!  she  had  a  soul, —  she 
could  disdain  rank  and  revere  genius !  What  a  triumph  over 
De  Montaigne,  ISIaltravers,  all  the  world,  if  he,  the  neglected 
poet,  could  win  the  hand  for  which  the  magnates  of  the  earth 
sighed  in  vain!  Pure  and  lofty  as  he  thought  himself,  it  was 
her  birth  and  her  wealth  which  Cesarini  adored  in.  Florence. 


252  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

And  Lumley,  nearer  perhaps  to  tlie  prize  than  either,  yet 
still  far  off,  went  on  conversing,  with  eloquent  lips  and  spark- 
ling eyes,  while  his  cold  heart  was  planning  every  word,  dic- 
tating every  glance,  and  laying  out  (for  the  most  worldly  are 
often  the  most  visionary)  the  chart  for  a  royal  road  to  for- 
tune. And  Florence  Lascelles,  when  the  crowd  had  dispersed 
and  she  sought  her  chamber,  forgot  all  three,  and  with  that 
morbid  romance  often  peculiar  to  those  for  whom  Fate  smiles 
the  most,  mused  over  the  ideal  image  of  the  one  she  could 
love,  —  in  maiden  meditation,  not  fancy-free! 


CHAPTER  IV. 

In  mea  vesauas  habui  dispendia  vires, 

Et  valui  pcEnas  fortis  in  ipse  meas.^  —  Ovid. 

Then  might  my  breast  be  read  within, 

A  thousand  volumes  would  be  written  there. 

Earl  of  Stirling. 

Ernest  Maltraveks  was  at  the  height  of  his  reputation ; 
the  work  which  he  had  deemed  the  crisis  that  was  to  make  or 
mar  him  was  the  most  brilliantly  successful  of  all  he  had  yet 
committed  to  the  public.  Certainly,  chance  did  as  much  for 
it  as  merit,  as  is  usually  the  case  with  works  that  become  in- 
stantaneously popular.  We  may  hammer  away  at  the  casket 
with  strong  arm  and  good  purpose,  and  all  in  vain;  when 
some  morning  a  careless  stroke  hits  the  right  nail  on  the 
head,  and  we  secure  the  treasure. 

It  was  at  this  time,  when  in  the  prime  of  youth,  rich, 
courted,  respected,  run  after,  that  Ernest  Maltravers  fell  se- 
riously ill.  It  was  no  active  or  visible  disease,  but  a  general 
irritability  of  the  nerves,  and  a  languid  sinking  of  the  whole 
frame.     His  labours  began,  perhaps,  to  tell  against  him.     In 

^  "  I  had  the  strength  of  a  madman  to  my  own  cost,  and  employed  that 
strength  in  my  own  punishment." 


ERXEST  MALTRAVERS.  253 

earlier  life  he  had  been  as  active  as  a  hunter  of  the  chamois, 
and  the  hardy  exercise  of  his  frame  counteracted  the  effects 
of  a  restless  and  ardent  mind.  The  change  from  an  athletic 
to  a  sedentary  habit  of  life,  the  wear  and  tear  of  the  brain, 
the  absorbing  passion  for  knowledge  which  day  and  night  kept 
all  his  faculties  in  a  stretch,  made  strange  havoc  in  a  consti- 
tution naturally  strong.  The  poor  author,  how  few  persons  un- 
derstand, and  forbear  with,  and  pity  him!  He  sells  his  health 
and  youth  to  a  rugged  taskmaster.  And,  0  blind  and  selfish 
world!  you  expect  him  to  be  as  free  of  manner,  and  as  pleas- 
ant of  cheer,  and  as  equal  of  mood  as  if  he  were  passing  the 
most  agreeable  and  healthful  existence  that  pleasure  could 
afford  to  smooth  the  wrinkles  of  the  mind,  or  medicine  invent 
to  regulate  the  nerves  of  the  body.  But  there  was,  besides 
all  this,  another  cause  that  operated  against  the  successful 
man, —  his  heart  was  too  solitary;  he  lived  without  the  sweet 
household  ties.  The  connections  and  amities  he  formed,  ex- 
cited for  a  moment,  but  possessed  no  charm  to  comfort  or  to 
soothe.  Cleveland  resided  so  much  in  the  country,  and  was 
of  so  much  calmer  a  temperament,  and  so  much  more  ad- 
vanced in  age,  that,  with  all  the  friendship  that  subsisted 
between  them,  there  was  none  of  that  daily  and  familiar  in- 
terchange of  confidence  which  affectionate  natures  demand  as 
the  very  food  of  life.  Of  his  brother  (as  the  reader  will  con- 
jecture from  never  having  been  formally  presented  to  him) 
Ernest  saw  but  little.  Colonel  Maltravers,  one  of  the  gayest 
and  handsomest  men  of  his  time,  married  to  a  fine  lady,  lived 
principally  at  Paris,  except  when,  for  a  few  weeks  in  the 
shooting  season,  he  filled  his  countrj^  house  with  companions 
who  had  nothing  in  common  with  Ernest.  The  brothers  cor- 
responded regularly  every  quarter,  and  saw  each  other  once 
a  year, — this  was  all  their  intercourse.  Ernest  jVEaltravers 
stood  in  the  world  alone  with  that  cold  but  anxious  spectre, 
—  Reputation. 

It  was  late  at  night.  Before  a  table  covered  with  the  mon- 
uments of  erudition  and  thought  sat  a  young  man  with  a  pale 
and  worn  countenance.  The  clock  in  the  room  told  with  a 
fretting  distinctness  every  moment  that  lessened  the  journey 


254  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

to  the  grave.  There  was  an  anxious  and  expectant  expression 
on  the  face  of  the  student,  and  from  time  to  time  he  glanced 
to  the  clock  and  muttered  to  himself.  Was  it  a  letter  from 
some  adored  mistress,  the  soothing  flattery  from  some  mighty 
arbiter  of  arts  and  letters,  that  the  young  man  eagerly 
awaited?  No;  the  aspirer  was  forgotten  in  the  valetudina- 
rian. Ernest  Maltravers  was  waiting  the  visit  of  his  physi- 
cian, whom  at  that  late  hour  a  sudden  thought  had  induced 
him  to  summon  from  his  rest.  At  length  the  well-known 
knock  was  heard,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  physician  en- 
tered. He  was  one  well  versed  in  the  peculiar  pathology  of 
bookmen,  and  kindly  as  well  as  skilful. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Maltravers,  what  is  this?  How  are  we?  Not 
seriously  ill,  I  hope,  —  no  relapse.  Pulse  low  and  irregular, 
I  see,  but  no  fever.     You  are  nervous." 

"Doctor,"  said  the  student,  "I  did  not  send  for  you  at  this 
time  of  night  from  the  idle  fear  or  fretful  caprice  of  an  in- 
valid. But  when  I  saw  you  this  morning,  you  dropped  some 
hints  which  have  haunted  me  ever  since.  Much  that  it  befits 
the  conscience  and  the  soul  to  attend  to  without  loss  of  time 
depends  upon  my  full  knowledge  of  my  real  state.  If  I  un- 
derstand you  rightly,  I  may  have  but  a  short  time  to  live, — 
is  it  so?" 

"Indeed!"  said  the  doctor,  turning  away  his  face,  "you 
have  exaggerated  my  meaning.  I  did  not  say  that  you  were 
in  what  we  technically  call  danger." 

"Am  I  then  likely  to  be  a  lonff-lived  man?" 

The  doctor  coughed.  "  That  is  uncertain,  my  dear  young 
friend,"  said  he,  after  a  pause. 

"Be  plain  with  me.  The  plans  of  life  must  be  based  upon 
such  calculations  as  we  can  reasonably  form  of  its  probable 
duration.  Do  not  fancy  that  I  am  weak  enough  or  coward 
enough  to  shrink  from  any  abyss  which  I  have  approached 
unconsciously;  I  desire,  I  adjure, —  nay,  I  command,  —  you 
to  be  explicit." 

There  was  an  earnest  and  solemn  dignity  in  his  patient^s 
voice  and  manner  which  deeply  touched  and  impressed  the 
good  physician. 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  255 

"I  will  answer  you  frankly,"  said  he:  "you  overwork  the 
nerves  and  the  brain;  if  you  do  not  relax,  you  will  subject 
yourself  to  confirmed  disease  and  premature  death.  Yot  sev- 
eral months,  perhaps  for  years  to  come,  you  should  wholly 
cease  from  literary  labour.  Is  this  a  hard  sentence?  You 
are  rich  and  young, —  enjoy  yourself  while  you  can." 

Maltravers  appeared  satisfied,  changed  the  conversation, 
talked  easily  on  other  matters  for  a  few  minutes;  nor  was  it 
till  he  had  dismissed  his  physician  that  he  broke  forth  with 
the  thoughts  that  were  burning  in  him. 

"Oh!  "  cried  he  aloud,  as  he  rose  and  paced  the  room  with 
rapid  strides,  "  now,  when  I  see  before  me  the  broad  and  lu- 
minous path,  am  I  to  be  condemned  to  halt  and  turn  aside? 
A  vast  empire  rises  on  my  view,  greater  than  that  of  Caesars 
and  conquerors, —  an  empire  durable  and  universal  in  the 
souls  of  men,  that  time  itself  cannot  overthrow;  and  Death 
marches  with  me,  side  by  side,  and  the  skeleton  hand  waves 
me  back  to  the  nothingness  of  common  men." 

He  paused  at  the  casement,  he  threw  it  open,  and  leaned 
forth  and  gasped  for  air.  Heaven  was  serene  and  still,  as 
morning  came  coldly  forth  amongst  the  waning  stars;  and 
the  haunts  of  men,  in  their  thoroughfare  of  idleness  and  of 
pleasure,  were  desolate  and  void.  Nothing,  save  Kature,  was 
awake. 

"  And  if,  0  stars ! "  murmured  Maltravers,  from  the  depth 
of  his  excited  heart,  "if  I  have  been  insensible  to  your  solemn 
beauty ;  if  the  Heaven  and  the  Earth  had  been  to  me  but  as 
air  and  clay;  if  I  were  one  of  a  dull  and  dim-eyed  herd, —  I 
might  live  on,  and  drop  into  the  grave  from  the  ripeness  of 
unprofitable  years.  It  is  because  I  yearn  for  the  great  objects 
of  an  immortal  being  that  life  shrinks  and  shrivels  up  like  a 
scroll.  Away!  I  will  not  listen  to  these  human  and  material 
monitors,  and  consider  life  as  a  thing  greater  than  the  things 
that  I  would  live  for.  My  choice  is  made;  glory  is  more 
persuasive  than  the  grave." 

He  turned  impatiently  from  the  casement;  his  eyes  flashed, 
his  chest  heaved,  he  trod  the  chamber  with  a  monarch's  air. 
All  the  calculations  of  prudence,  all  the  tame  and  methodical 


256  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

reasonings  with  which,  from  time  to  time,  he  had  sought  to 
sober  clown  the  impetuous  man  into  the  cahn  machine,  faded 
away  before  tlie  burst  of  awful  and  commanding  passions  that 
swept  over  his  soul.  Tell  a  man,  in  the  full  tide  of  his  tri- 
umphs, that  he  bears  death  within  him,  and  what  crisis  of 
thought  can  be  more  startling  and  more  terrible! 

Maltravers  had,  as  we  have  seen,  cared  little  for  fame  till 
fame  had  been  brought  within  his  reach;  then,  with  every 
step  he  took,  new  Alps  had  arisen.  Each  new  conjecture 
brought  to  light  a  new  truth  that  demanded  enforcement  or 
defence.  Rivalry  and  competition  chafed  his  blood  and  kept 
his  faculties  at  their  full  speed.  He  had  the  generous  race- 
horse spirit  of  emulation.  Ever  in  action,  ever  in  progress, 
cheered  on  by  the  sarcasms  of  foes  even  more  than  by  the 
applause  of  friends,  the  desire  of  glory  had  become  the  habit 
of  existence.  When  we  have  commenced  a  career,  what  stop 
is  there  till  the  grave?  Where  is  the  definite  barrier  of  that 
ambition  which,  like  the  eastern  bird,  seems  ever  on  the  wing, 
and  never  rests  upon  the  earth?  Our  names  are  not  settled 
till  our  death;  the  ghosts  of  what  we  have  done  are  made  our 
haunting  monitors,  our  scourging  avengers,  if  ever  we  cease 
to  do,  or  fall  short  of  the  younger  past.  Repose  is  oblivion; 
to  pause  is  to  unravel  all  the  web  that  we  have  woven,  — ' 
until  the  tomb  closes  over  us,  and  men,  just  when  it  is  too 
late,  strike  the  fair  balance  between  ourselves  and  our  rivals, 
and  we  are  measured,  not  by  the  least  but  by  the  greatest  tri- 
umphs we  have  achieved.  Oh,  what  a  crushing  sense  of  im- 
potence comes  over  iis  when  we  feel  that  our  frame  cannot 
support  our  mind;  when  the  hand  can  no  longer  execute  what 
the  soul,  actively  as  ever,  conceives  and  desires !  The  quick 
life  tied  to  the  dead  form;  the  ideas  fresh  as  immortality, 
gushing  forth  rich  and  golden,  —  and  the  broken  nerves,  and 
the  aching  frame,  and  the  weary  eyes!  The  spirit  athirst  for 
liberty  and  heaven, —  and  the  damning,  choking  consciousness 
that  we  are  walled  up  and  prisoned  in  a  dungeon  that  must 
be  our  burial-place!  Talk  not  of  freedom, —  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  freedom  to  a  man  whose  body  is  the  jail,  whose  in- 
firmities are  the  racks,  of  his  genius ! 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  257 

Maltravers  paused  at  last,  and  threw  himself  on  his  sofa, 
wearied  and  exhausted.  Involuntarily,  and  as  a  half  uncon- 
scious means  of  escaping  from  his  conflicting  and  profitless 
emotions,  he  turned  to  several  letters  which  had  for  hours 
lain  unopened  on  his  table.  Every  one,  the  seal  of  which  he 
broke,  seemed  to  mock  his  state ;  every  one  seemed  to  attest 
the  felicity  of  his  fortunes.  Some  bespoke  the  admiring  sym- 
pathy of  the  highest  and  wisest;  one  offered  him  a  brilliant 
opening  into  public  life;  another  (it  was  from  Cleveland) 
was  fraught  with  all  the  proud  and  rapturous  approbation  of 
a  prophet  whose  auguries  are  at  last  fulfilled.  At  that  letter 
Maltravers  sighed  deeply,  and  paused  before  he  turned  to  the 
others.  The  last  he  opened  was  in  an  unknown  hand,  nor 
was  any  name  a£Bjj.ed  to  it.  Like  all  writers  of  some  note, 
Maltravers  was  in  the  habit  of  receiving  anonymous  letters 
of  praise,  censure,  warning,  and  exhortation,  —  especially 
from  young  ladies  at  boarding-schools,  and  old  ladies  in  the 
country;  but  there  was  that  in  the  first  sentences  of  the  let- 
ter, which  he  now  opened  with  a  careless  hand,  that  riveted 
his  attention.  It  was  a  small  and  beautiful  handwriting;  yet 
the  letters  were  more  clear  and  bold  than  they  usually  are  in 
feminine  calligraphy. 

"  Ernest  Maltravers,"  began  this  singular  effusion,  "  have  you  weighed 
yourself  ?  Are  you  aware  of  your  capacities  ?  Do  you  feel  that  for  you 
there  may  be  a  more  dazzling  reputation  than  that  which  appears  to 
content  you  ?  You  who  seem  to  penetrate  into  the  subtlest  windings  of 
the  human  heart,  and  to  have  examined  nature  as  through  a  glass ;  you, 
whose  thoughts  stand  forth  like  armies  marshalled  in  defence  of  truth, 
bold  and  dauntless,  and  without  a  stain  upon  their  glittering  armour,  — 
are  you,  at  your  age  and  with  your  advantages,  to  bury  yourself  amidst 
books  and  scrolls  ?  Do  you  forget  that  action  is  the  grand  career  for 
men  who  think  as  you  do  ?  Will  this  word-weighing  and  picture- 
writing,  the  cold  eulogies  of  pedants,  the  listless  praises  of  literary 
idlers,  content  all  the  yearnings  of  your  ambition  ?  You  were  not  made 
solely  for  the  closet ;  '  The  Dreams  of  Pindus  and  the  Aonian  Maids ' 
cannot  endure  through  the  noon  of  manhood.  Y'ou  are  too  practical  for 
the  mere  poet,  and  too  poetical  to  sink  into  the  dull  tenor  of  a  learned 
life.  I  have  never  seen  you,  yet  I  know  you,  —  I  read  your  spirit  in 
your  page ;  that  aspiration  for  something  better  and  greater  than  the 

17 


258  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

great  and  the  good,  which  colours  all  your  passionate  revelations  of 
yourself  and  others,  cannot  be  satisfied  merely  by  ideal  images. 
You  cannot  be  contented,  as  poets  and  historians  mostly  are,  bv 
becoming  great  only  from  delineating  great  men,  or  imagining  great 
events,  or  describing  a  great  era.  Is  it  not  worthier  of  you  to  he 
what  you  fancy  or  relate  ?  Awake,  Maltravers,  awake !  Look  into 
your  heart,  and  feel  your  proper  destinies.  And  who  am  I  that  thus 
address  you?  A  woman  whose  soul  is  filled  with  you,  —  a  woman  in 
whom  your  eloquence  has  awakened,  amidst  frivolous  and  vain  circles, 
the  sense  of  a  new  existence  ;  a  woman  who  would  make  you,  yourself, 
the  embodied  ideal  of  your  own  thoughts  and  dreams,  and  who  would 
ask  from  earth  no  other  lot  than  that  of  following  you  on  the  road  of 
fame  with  the  eyes  of  her  heart.  Mistake  me  not ;  I  repeat  that  I  have 
never  seen  you,  nor  do  I  wish  it ;  you  might  be  other  than  I  imagine, 
and  I  should  lose  an  idol  and  be  left  without  a  worship.  I  am  a  kind  of 
visionary  Rosicrucian :  it  is  a  spirit  that  I  adore,  and  not  a  being  like 
myself.  You  imagine,  perhaps,  that  I  have  some  purpose  to  serve  in 
this  :  I  have  no  object  in  administering  to  your  vanity;  and  if  I  judge 
you  rightly,  this  letter  is  one  that  might  make  you  vain  without  a  blush. 
Oh,  the  admiration  that  does  not  spring  from  holy  and  profound  som'ces 
of  emotion,  how  it  saddens  us  or  disgusts !  I  have  had  my  share  of 
vulgar  homage,  and  it  only  makes  me  feel  doubly  alone.  I  am  richer 
than  you  are ;  I  have  youth,  —  I  have  what  they  call  beauty.  And 
neither  riches,  youth,  nor  beauty  ever  gave  me  the  silent  and  deep  hap- 
piness I  experience  when  I  think  of  you.  This  is  a  worship  that  might, 
I  repeat,  well  make  even  you  vain.  Think  of  these  words,  I  implore 
you.  Be  worthy,  not  of  my  thoughts,  but  of  the  shape  in  which  they 
represent  you  ;  and  every  ray  of  glory  that  surrounds  you  will  brighten 
my  own  way,  and  inspire  me  with  a  kindred  emulation.  Farewell.  I 
may  write  to  you  again,  but  you  will  never  discover  me  ;  and  in  Me  I 
pray  that  we  may  never  meet !  " 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  259 


CHAPTER   V. 

Our  list  of  nobles  uext  let  Amri  grace. 

Absalom  and  Achitopkel. 

Sine  me  vacivum  teinpus  ne  quod  dem  mihi 
Laboris.i  —  Terence. 

"I  can't  think,"  said  one  of  a  group  of  young  men  loiter- 
ing by  the  steps  of  a  club-house  in  St.  James's  Street, —  "I 
can't  think  what  has  chanced  to  Maltravers.  Do  you  observe 
(as  he  walks  —  there  —  the  other  side  of  the  way)  how  much 
he  is  altered?  He  stoops  like  an  old  man,  and  hardly  ever 
lifts  his  eyes  from  the  ground.  He  certainly  seems  sick 
and  sad." 

"Writing  books,  I  suppose." 

"Or  privately  married." 

"  Or  growing  too  rich,  —  rich  men  are  always  unhappy 
beings." 

"Ha,  Ferrers,  how  are  you?" 

"So-so.     What's  the  news?"  replied  Lumley. 

"Rattler  pays  forfeit." 

"Oh!  but  in  politics?" 

"Hang  politics!     Are  you  turned  politician?  " 

"At  my  age,  what  else  is  there  left  to  do?" 

"I  thought  so,  by  your  hat;  all  politicians  sport  odd-look- 
ing hats.  It  is  very  remarkable,  but  that  is  the  great  symp- 
tom of  the  disease." 

"My  hat, —  is  it  odd?"  said  Ferrers,  taking  off  the  com- 
modity in  question,  and  seriously  regarding  it. 

"Wh}'^,  who  ever  saw  such  a  brim?" 

" Glad  you  think  so." 

"Why,  Ferrers?" 

"  Because  it  is  a  prudent  policy  in  this  country  to  surrender 
something  trifling  up  to  ridicule.     If  people  can  abuse  your 

^  "  Suffer  me  to  employ  my  spare  time  in  some  kind  of  labour." 


260  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

hat  or  your  carriage,  or  the  shape  of  your  nose,  or  a  wart  on 
your  chin,  they  let  slip  a  thousand  more  important  matters. 
'T  is  the  wisdom  of  the  camel-driver,  who  gives  up  his  gown 
for  the  camel  to  trample  on,  that  he  may  escape  himself." 

"How  droll  you  are,  Ferrers!  Well,  I  shall  turn  in,  and 
read  the  papers ;  and  you  — '' 

"  Shall  pay  my  visits  and  rejoice  in  my  hat. " 

"  Good-day  to  you.  By  the  by,  your  friend  Maltravers  has 
just  passed,  looking  thoughtful,  and  talking  to  himself. 
What's  the  matter  with  him?'" 

"Lamenting,  perhaps,  that  he,  too,  does  not  wear  an  odd 
hat  for  gentlemen  like  you  to  laugh  at,  and  leave  the  rest  of 
him  in  peace.     Good-day." 

On  went  Ferrers,  and  soon  found  himself  in  the  Mall  of 
the  Park.     Here  he  was  joined  by  Mr.  Templeton. 

"Well,  Lumley,"  said  the  latter  (and  it  may  be  here  re- 
marked that  Mr.  Templeton  now  exhibited  towards  his 
nephew  a  greater  respect  of  manner  and  tone  than  he  had 
thought  it  necessary  to  observe  before), —  "well,  Lumley,  and 
have  you  seen  Lord  Saxingham?" 

" I  have,  sir;  and  I  regret  to  say  —  " 

"I  thought  so,  I  thought  it,"  interrupted  Templeton.  "Xo 
gratitude  in  public  men,  no  wish,  in  high  place,  to  honour 
virtue !  " 

"Pardon  me.  Lord  Saxingham  declares  that  he  should  be 
delighted  to  forward  your  views,  that  no  man  more  deserves 
a  jjeerage ;  but  that  —  " 

"Oh,  yes;  always  'buts'!" 

"  But  that  there  are  so  many  claimants  at  present  whom  it 
is  impossible  to  satisfy;  and  —  and  —  But  I  feel  I  ought  not 
to  go  on." 

"Proceed,  sir,  I  beg." 

"Why,  then.  Lord  Saxingham  is  (T  must  be  frank)  a  man 
who  has  a  great  regard  for  his  own  family.     Your  marriage 

—  a  source,  my  dear  uncle,  of  the  greatest  gratification  to  me 

—  cuts  off  the  probable  chance  of  your  fortune  and  title,  if 
you  acquire  the  latter,   descending  to  — " 

"Yourself!"    put   in    Templeton,    dryly.     "Your    relation 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  261 

seems,  for  the  first  time,  to  have  discovered  how  dear  your 
interests  are  to  him." 

"For  rae,  individually,  sir,  my  relation  does  not  care  a  rush; 
but  he  cares  a  great  deal  for  any  member  of  his  house  being 
rich  and  in  high  station.  It  increases  the  range  and  credit  of 
his  connections ;  and  Lord  Saxingham  is  a  man  whom  connec- 
tions help  to  keep  great.  To  be  plain  with  you,  he  will  not 
stir  in  this  business  because  he  does  not  see  how  his  kinsman 
is  to  be  benefited  or  his  house  strengthened." 

"  Public  virtue !  "  exclaimed  Templeton. 

"  Virtue,  my  dear  uncle,  is  a  female :  as  long  as  she  is  pri- 
vate property,  she  is  excellent;  but  public  virtue,  like  any 
other  public  lady,  is  a  common  prostitute." 

"  Pshaw !  "  grunted  Templeton,  who  was  too  much  out  of 
humour  to  read  his  nephew  the  lecture  he  might  otherwise 
have  done  upon  the  impropriety  of  his  simile;  for  Mr.  Tem- 
pleton was  one  of  those  men  who  hold  it  vicious  to  talk  of 
vice  as  existing  in  the  world :  he  was  very  much  shocked  to 
hear  anything  called  by  its  proper  name. 

"Has  not  Mrs.  Templeton  some  connections  that  may  be 
useful  to  you?  " 

"No,  sir!  "  cried  the  uncle,  in  a  voice  of  thunder. 

"  Sorry  to  hear  it.  But  we  cannot  expect  all  things :  you 
have  married  for  love,  you  have  a  happy  home,  a  charming 
wife, —  this  is  better  than  a  title  and  a  fine  lady." 

"Mr.  Lumley  Ferrers,  you  may  spare  me  your  consolations. 
My  wife  — " 

"Loves  you  dearly,  I  dare  say,"  said  the  imperturbable 
nephew.  "  She  has  so  much  sentiment,  is  so  fond  of  poetry. 
Oh,  yes !  she  must  love  one  who  has  done  so  much  for  her. " 

"  Done  so  much :  what  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Why,  with  your  fortune,  your  station,  your  just  ambition, 
—  you,  who  might  have  married  any  one ;  nay,  by  remaining 
unmarried,  have  conciliated  all  my  interested,  selfish  rela- 
tions, hang  them, — you  have  married  a  lady  without  connec- 
tions, and  what  more  could  you  do  for  her?  " 

"Pooh,  pooh!  3'ou  don't  know  all." 

Here  Templeton  stopped  short,  as  if  about  to  say  too  much, 


262  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

and  frowned;  then,  after  a  pause,  he  resumed,  "Lumley,  I 
have  married,  it  is  true.  You  may  not  be  my  heir,  but  I  will 
make  it  up  to  you, —  that  is,  if  you  deserve  my  affection." 

"  My  dear  unc  —  " 

"  Don't  interrupt  me :  I  have  projects  for  you.  Let  our  in- 
terests be  the  same.  The  title  may  yet  descend  to  you;  I 
may  have  no  male  offspring.  Meanwhile,  draw  on  me  to  any 
reasonable  amount,— young  men  have  expenses;  but  be  pru- 
dent, and  if  you  want  to  get  on  in  the  world,  never  let  the 
world  detect  you  in  a  scrape.     There,  leave  me  now." 

"  My  best,  my  heartfelt  thanks !  " 

"Hush!  Sound  Lord  Saxingham  again;  I  must  and  will 
have  this  bauble,— I  have  set  my  heart  on  it."  So  saying, 
Templeton  waved  away  his  nephew  and  musingly  pursued  his 
path  towards  Hyde  Park  Corner,  where  his  carriage  awaited 
him.  As  soon  as  he  entered  his  demesnes,  he  saw  his  wife's 
daughter  running  across  the  lawn  to  greet  him.  His  heart 
softened ;  he  checked  the  carnage  and  descended ;  he  caressed 
her,  he  played  with  her,  he  laughed  as  she  laughed.  No 
parent  could  be  more  fond. 

"Lumley  Ferrers  has  talent  to  do  me  honour,"  said  he, 
anxiously;  "but  his  principles  seem  unstable.  However, 
surely  that  open  manner  is  the  sign  of  a  good  heart." 

Meanwhile,  Ferrers,  in  high  spirits,  took  his  way  to  Er- 
nest's house.  His  friend  was  not  at  home ;  but  Ferrers  never 
wanted  a  host's  presence  in  order  to  be  at  home  himself. 
Books  were  round  him  in  abundance ;  but  Ferrers  was  not  one 
of  those  who  read  for  amusement.  He  threw  himself  into  an 
easy-chair,  and  began  weaving  new  meshes  of  ambition  and 
intrigue.    At  length  the  door  opened,  and  Maltravers  entered. 

"  Why,  Ernest,  how  ill  you  are  looking !  " 

"  I  have  not  been  well,  but  I  am  now  recovering.  As  phy- 
sicians recommend  change  of  air  to  ordinary  patients,  so  I  am 
about  to  try  change  of  habit.  Active  I  must  be, —  action  is 
the  condition  of  my  being;  but  I  must  have  done  with  books 
for  the  present.     You  see  me  in  a  new  character." 

"How?" 

"That  of  a  public  man,  —  I  have  entered  parliament." 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  263 

"You  astonish  me!  I  have  read  the  papers  this  morning; 
I  saw  not  even  a  vacancy,  much  less  an  election." 

"  It  is  all  managed  by  the  lawyer  and  the  banker.  In  other 
words,  my  seat  is  a  close  borough." 

"No  bore  of  constituents!  1  congratulate  you,  and  envy. 
I  wish  I  were  in  parliament  myself." 

"You!     I  never  fancied  you  bitten  by  the  political  mania." 

"Political?  No.  But  it  is  the  most  respectable  way,  with 
luck,  of  living  on  the  public;  better  than  swindling." 

"  A  candid  way  of  viewing  the  question.  But  I  thought  at 
one  time  you  were  half  a  Benthamite,  and  that  your  motto 
was,  'The  greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest  number.'  " 

"The  greatest  number  to  me  is  number  one.  I  agree  with 
the  Pythagoreans, — unity  is  the  perfect  principle  of  creation! 
Seriously,  how  can  you  mistake  the  principles  of  opinion  for 
the  principles  of  conduct?  I  am  a  Benthamite,  a  benevolist, 
as  a  logician ;  but  the  moment  I  leave  the  closet  for  the  world, 
I  lay  aside  speculation  for  others,  and  act  for  myself." 

"You  are  at  least  more  frank  than  prudent  in  these 
confessions." 

"There  you  are  wrong.  It  is  by  affecting  to  be  worse  than 
we  are  that  we  become  popular,  and  we  get  credit  for  being 
both  honest  and  practical  fellows.  My  uncle's  mistake  is  to 
be  a  hypocrite  in  words:  it  rarely  answers.  Be  frank  in 
words,  and  nobody  will  suspect  hypocrisy  in  your  designs." 

Maltravers  gazed  hard  at  Ferrers.  Something  revolted  and 
displeased  his  high-wrought  Platonism  in  the  easy  wisdom  of 
his  old  friend;  but  he  felt,  almost  for  the  first  time,  that 
Ferrers  was  a  man  to  get  on  in  the  world,  and  he  sighed, —  I 
hope  it  was  for  the  world's  sake. 

After  a  short  conversation  on  indifferent  matters,  Cleveland 
was  announced;  and  Ferrers,  who  could  make  nothing  out  of 
Cleveland,  soon  withdrew.  Ferrers  was  now  becoming  an 
economist  in  his  time. 

"My  dear  Maltravers,"  said  Cleveland,  when  they  were 
alone,  "  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you ;  for,  in  the  first  place,  I  re- 
joice to  find  you  are  extending  your  career  of  usefulness." 

"Usefulness, — ah,  let  me  think  so!     Life  is  so  uncertain 


264  ERNEST   MALTRAYERS. 

and  so  short  that  we  cannot  too  soon  bring  the  little  it  can 
yield  into  the  great  commonwealth  of  the  Beautiful  or  the 
Honest;  and  both  belong  to  and  make  up  the  Useful.  But  in 
politics,  and  in  a  highly  artificial  state,  what  doubts  beset  us, 
what  darkness  surrounds!  If  we  connive  at  abuses,  we  juggle 
with  our  own  reason  and  integrity;  if  we  attack  them,  how 
much,  how  fatally,  we  may  derange  that  solemn  and  conven- 
tional ORDER  which  is  the  mainspring  of  the  vast  machine! 
How  little,  too,  can  one  man,  whose  talents  may  not  be  in 
that  coarse  road,  in  that  mephitic  atmosphere,  be  enabled  to 
effect!" 

"  He  may  effect  a  vast  deal,  even  without  eloquence  or  la- 
bour; he  may  effect  a  vast  deal  if  he  can  set  one  example, 
amidst  a  crowd  of  selfish  aspirants  and  heated  fanatics,  of  an 
honest  and  dispassionate  man.  He  may  effect  more  if  he  may 
serve  among  the  representatives  of  that  hitherto  unrepresented 
thing,  Literature ;  if  he  redeem,  by  an  ambition  above  place 
and  emolument,  the  character  for  subservience  that  court- 
poets  have  obtained  for  letters ;  if  he  may  prove  that  specula- 
tive knowledge  is  not  disjoined  from  the  practical  world,  and 
maintain  the  dignity  of  disinterestedness  that  should  belong 
to  learning.  But  the  end  of  a  scientific  morality  is  not  to 
serve  others  only,  but  also  to  perfect  and  accomplish  our 
individual  selves:  our  own  souls  are  a  solemn  trust  to  our 
own  lives.  You  are  about  to  add  to  your  experience  of  hu- 
man motives  and  active  men;  and  whatever  additional  wisdom 
you  acquire  will  become  equally  evident  and  equally  useful, 
no  matter  whether  it  be  communicated  through  action  or  in 
books.  Enough  of  this,  my  dear  Ernest.  I  have  come  to 
dine  with  you,  and  make  you  accompany  me  to-night  to  a 
house  where  you  will  be  welcome,  and  I  think  interested. 
Nay,  no  excuses.  I  have  promised  Lord  Latimer  that  he 
shall  make  your  acquaintance,  and  he  is  one  of  the  most  emi- 
nent men  with  whom  political  life  will  connect  you." 

And  to  this  change  of  habits,  from  the  closet  to  the  senate, 
had  Maltravers  been  induced  by  a  state  of  health,  which,  with 
most  men,  would  have  been  an  excuse  for  indolence.  Indo- 
lent he  could  not  be ;  he  had  truly  said  to  Ferrers  that  action 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  265 

was  the  condition  of  his  being.  If  thought,  with  its  fever 
and  aching  tension,  had  been  too  severe  a  taskmaster  on  the 
nerves  and  brain,  the  coarse  and  homely  pursuit  of  practical 
politics  would  leave  the  imagination  and  intellect  in  repose, 
while  it  would  excite  the  hardier  qualities  and  gifts  which 
animate  without  exhausting.  So,  at  least,  hoped  Maltravers. 
He  remembered  the  profound  saying  in  one  of  his  favourite 
German  authors,  "  that  to  keep  the  mind  and  body  in  perfect 
health,  it  is  necessary  to  mix  habitually  and  betimes  in  the 
common  affairs  of  men,"  And  the  anonymous  correspond- 
ent,—  had  her  exhortations  any  influence  on  his  decision?  I 
know  not.  But  when  Cleveland  left  him,  Maltravers  unlocked 
his  desk  and  re-perused  the  last  letter  he  had  received  from 
the  Unknown.  The  last  letter!  Yes,  those  epistles  had  now 
become  frequent. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

Le  brillant  de  votre  esprit  donne  un  si  grand  eclat  a  votre  teint  et  a  vos 
yeux  que  quoiqu'il  semble  que  I'esprit  ne  doit  toucher  que  les  oreilles,  il  est 
pourtaut  certain  que  la  votre  e'blouit  les  yeux.*  —  Lettres  de  Madame  de 
Sevigne. 

At  Lord  Latimer's  house  were  assembled  some  hundreds  of 
those  persons  who  are  rarely  found  together  in  London  so- 
ciety; for  business,  politics,  and  literature  draught  off  the 
most  eminent  men,  and  usually  leave  to  houses  that  receive 
the  world  little  better  than  indolent  rank  or  ostentatious 
wealth.  Even  the  young  men  of  pleasure  turn  up  their  noses 
at  parties  nowadays,  and  find  society  a  bore.  But  there  are 
some  dozen  or  two  of  houses,  the  owners  of  which  are  both 
apart  from  and  above  the  fashion,  in  which  a  foreigner  may 

^  "The  brilliancy  of  your  wit  gives  so  great  a  lustre  to  your  complexion 
and  your  eyes,  that,  though  it  seems  that  wit  should  only  reach  the  ears,  it 
is  altogether  certain  that  yours  dazzles  the  eyes." 


266  EKXEST   MALTRAYERS. 

see,  collected  under  the  same  roof,  many  of  the  most  remark- 
able men  of  busy,  thoughtful,  majestic  England.  Lord  Lati- 
mer himself  had  been  a  Cabinet  minister.  He  retired  from 
public  life  on  pretence  of  ill-health,  but  in  reality  because  its 
anxious  bustle  was  not  congenial  to  a  gentle  and  accomplished, 
but  somewhat  feeble,  mind.  With  a  high  reputation  and  an 
excellent  cook,  he  enjoyed  a  great  popularity  both  with  his 
own  party  and  the  world  in  general ;  and  he  was  the  centre  of 
a  small,  but  distinguished  circle  of  acquaintances,  who  drank 
Latimer's  wine,  and  quoted  Latimer's  sayings,  and  liked 
Latimer  much  better  because,  not  being  author  or  minister, 
he  was  not  in  their  way. 

Lord  Latimer  received  Maltravers  with  marked  courtesy, 
and  even  deference,  and  invited  him  to  join  his  own  whist- 
table, —  which  was  one  of  the  highest  compliments  his  lord- 
ship could  pay  to  his  intellect.  But  when  his  guest  refused 
the  proffered  honour,  the  earl  turned  him  over  to  the  count- 
ess, as  having  become  the  property  of  the  womankind;  and 
was  soon  immersed  in  his  aspirations  for  the  odd  trick. 

Whilst  Maltravers  was  conversing  with  Lady  Latimer,  he 
happened  to  raise  his  eyes,  and  saw  opposite  to  him  a  young 
lady  of  such  remarkable  beauty  that  he  could  scarcely  refrain 
from  an  admiring  exclamation.  "And  who,"  he  asked,  re- 
covering himself,  "is  that  lady?  It  is  strange  that  even  I, 
who  go  so  little  into  the  world,  should  be  compelled  to  in- 
quire the  name  of  one  whose  beauty  must  already  have  made 
her  celebrated." 

"Oh,  Lady  Florence  Lascelles, —  she  came  out  last  year. 
She  is  indeed  most  brilliant,  yet  more  so  in  mind  and  accom- 
plishments than  face.     I  must  be  allowed  to  introduce  you." 

At  this  offer  a  strange  shyness,  and  as  it  were  reluctant 
distrust,  seized  Maltravers, —  a  kind  of  presentiment  of  danger 
and  evil.  He  drew  back,  and  would  have  made  some  excuse, 
but  Lady  Latimer  did  not  heed  his  embarrassment,  and  was 
already  by  the  side  of  Lady  Florence  Lascelles.  A  moment 
more,  and  beckoning  to  Maltravers,  the  countess  presented 
him  to  the  lady.  As  he  bowed  and  seated  himself  beside  his 
new  acquaintance,  he  could  not  but  observe  that  her  cheeks 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  267 

were  suffused  with  the  most  lively  blushes,  and  that  she  re- 
ceived him  with  a  confusion  not  common  even  in  ladies  just 
brought  out  and  just  introduced  to  "a  lion."  He  was  rather 
puzzled  than  flattered  by  these  tokens  of  an  embarrassment 
somewhat  akin  to  his  own,  and  the  first  few  sentences  of  their 
conversation  passed  off  with  a  certain  awkwardness  and  re- 
serve. At  this  moment,  to  the  surprise,  perhaps  to  the  relief, 
of  Ernest,  they  were  joined  by  Lumley  Ferrers. 

"Ah,  Lady  Florence,  I  kiss  your  hands!  I  am  charmed 
to  find  you  acquainted  with  my  friend  Maltravers." 

"And  Mr.  Ferrers,  what  makes  him  so  late  to-night?" 
asked  the  fair  Florence,  with  a  sudden  ease  which  rather  star- 
tled Maltravers. 

"A  dull  dinner, —  voila  tout!  I  have  no  other  excuse." 
And  Ferrers,  sliding  into  a  vacant  chair  on  the  other  side  of 
Lady  Florence,  conversed  volubly  and  unceasingly,  as  if  seek- 
ing to  monopolize  her  attention. 

Ernest  had  not  been  so  much  captivated  with  the  manner  of 
Florence  as  he  had  been  struck  with  her  beauty;  and  now, 
seeing  her  apparently  engaged  with  another,  he  rose,  and 
quietly  moved  away.  He  was  soon  one  of  a  knot  of  men  who 
were  conversing  on  the  absorbing  topics  of  the  day;  and  as 
by  degrees  the  exciting  subject  brought  out  his  natural  elo- 
quence and  masculine  sense,  the  talkers  became  listeners,  the 
knot  widened  into  a  circle,  and  he  himself  was  unconsciously 
the  object  of  general  attention  and  respect. 

"And  what  think  you  of  Mr,  Maltravers?"  asked  Ferrers, 
carelessly.     "Does  he  keep  up  your  expectations?  " 

Lady  Florence  had  sunk  into  a  revery,  and  Ferrers  repeated 
his  question. 

"  He  is  j^ounger  than  I  imagined  him,  and  —  and  —  " 

"Handsomer,  I  suppose,  you  mean." 

"No!  calmer,  and  less  animated." 

"He  seems  animated  enough  now,"  said  Ferrers;  "but  your 
ladylike  conversation  failed  in  striking  the  Promethean  spark, 
'Lay  that  flattering  unction  to  your  soul,'  " 

"Ah!  you  are  right;  he  must  have  thought  me  very  —  " 

"Beautiful,  no  doubt." 


268  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

"Beautiful!  I  hate  the  word,  Lumley.  I  wish  I  were  not 
handsome;  I  might  then  get  some  credit  for  my  intellect." 

"Humph!"  said  Ferrers,  significantly. 

"Oh,  you  don't  think  so,  sceptic?"  said  Florence,  shaking 
her  head  with  a  slight  laugh  and  an  altered  manner. 

"Does  it  matter  what  I  think,"  said  Ferrers,  with  an  at- 
tempted touch  at  the  sentimental,  "when  Lord  This,  and 
Lord  That,  and  Mr.  So-and-so,  and  Count  What-d' ye-call- 
him,  are  all  making  their  way  to  you  to  dispossess  me  of  my 
envied  monopoly?  " 

While  Ferrers  spoke,  several  of  the  scattered  loungers 
grouped  around  Florence,  and  the  conversation,  of  which  she 
was  the  cynosure,  became  animated  and  gay.  Oh,  how  bril- 
liant she  was,  that  peerless  Florence!  With  what  petulant 
and  sparkling  grace  came  wit  and  wisdom,  and  even  genius, 
from  those  ruby  lips !  Even  the  assured  Ferrers  felt  his  sub- 
tle intellect  as  dull  and  coarse  to  hers,  and  shrank  with  a  re- 
luctant apprehension  from  the  arrows  of  her  careless  and 
prodigal  repartees.  For  there  was  a  scorn  in  the  nature  of 
Florence  Lascelles  which  made  her  wit  pain  more  frequently 
than  it  pleased.  Educated  even  to  learning,  courageous  even 
to  a  want  of  feminacy,  she  delighted  to  sport  with  ignorance 
and  pretension,  even  in  the  highest  places ;  and  the  laugh  that 
she  excited  was  like  lightning,  — no  one  could  divine  where 
next  it  might  fall. 

But  Florence,  though  dreaded  and  unloved,  was  yet  courted, 
flattered,  and  the  rage.  For  this  there  were  two  reasons: 
first,  she  was  a  coquette;  and  secondly,  she  was  an  heiress. 

Thus  the  talkers  in  the  room  were  divided  into  two  princi- 
pal groups,  over  one  of  which  Maltravers  may  be  said  to  have 
presided;  over  the  other,  Florence.  As  the  former  broke  up, 
Ernest  was  joined  by  Cleveland. 

"My  dear  cousin,"  said  Florence,  suddenly,  and  in  a  whis- 
per, as  she  turned  to  Lumley,  "your  friend  is  speaking  of  me, 
—  I  see  it.  Go,  I  implore  you,  and  let  me  know  what  he 
says !  " 

"The  commission  is  not  flattering,"  said  Ferrers,  almost 
sullenly. 


ERNEST  MALTRAYERS.  269 

"Nay,  a  commission  to  gratify  a  woman's  curiosity  is  ever 
one  of  the  most  flattering  embassies  with  which  we  can  in- 
vest an  able  negotiator." 

"Well,  I  must  do  your  bidding,  though  I  disown  the  fa- 
vour." Ferrers  moved  away,  and  joined  Cleveland  and 
Maltravers. 

"She  is  indeed  beautiful;  so  perfect  a  contour  I  never  be- 
held :  she  is  the  only  woman  I  ever  saw  in  whom  the  aquiline 
features  seem  more  classical  than  even  the  Greek." 

"So  that  is  your  opinion  of  my  fair  cousin!  "  cried  Ferrers; 
"you  are  caught." 

"I  wish  he  were,"  said  Cleveland.  "Ernest  is  now  old 
enough  to  settle,  and  there  is  not  a  more  dazzling  prize  in 
England, —  rich,  high-born,  lovely,  and  accomplished." 

"And  what  say  you?"  asked  Lumley,  almost  impatiently, 
to  Maltravers. 

"That  I  never  saw  one  whom  I  admire  more  or  could  love 
less,"  replied  Ernest,  as  he  quitted  the  rooms. 

Ferrers  looked  after  him,  and  muttered  to  himself;  he  then 
rejoined  Florence,  who  presently  rose  to  depart,  and  taking 
Lumley 's  arm,  said,  "Well,  I  see  my  father  is  looking  round 
for  me ;  and  so  for  once  I  will  forestall  him.  Come,  Lumley, 
let  us  join  him ;  I  know  he  wants  to  see  you. 

"Well?  "  said  Florence,  blushing  deeply  and  almost  breath- 
less, as  they  crossed  the  now  half -empty  apartments. 

"Well,  my  cousin?" 

"You  provoke  me!     Well,  then,  what  said  your  friend?" 

"  That  you  deserved  your  reputation  of  beauty,  but  that  you 
were  not  his  style.     Maltravers  is  in  love,  you  know." 

"In  love!" 

"Yes,  —  a  pretty  Frenchwoman!  Quite  romantic, —  an  at- 
tachment of  some  years'  standing." 

Florence  turned  away  her  face,  and  said  no  more. 

"That's  a  good  fellow,  Lumley,"  said  Lord  Saxingham; 
"Florence  is  never  more  welcome  to  my  eyes  than  at  half- 
past  one  o'clock  a.  m.,  when  I  associate  her  with  thoughts  of 
my  natural  rest  and  my  unfortunate  carriage-horses.  By  the 
by,  I  wish  you  would  dine  with  me  next  Saturday." 


270  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

"Saturday, — unfortunately  I  am  engaged  to  my  uncle." 

"Oh!  he  has  behaved  handsomely  to  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Mrs.  Templeton  pretty  well?" 

"I  fancy  so." 

"  As  ladies  wish  to  be,  etc.  ?  "  whispered  his  lordship. 

"No,  thank  Heaven!  " 

"Well,  if  the  old  man  could  but  make  you  his  heir,  we 
might  think  twice  about  the  title." 

"My  dear  lord,  stop, —  one  favour:  write  me  a  line  to  hint 
that  delicately." 

"No,  no  letters;  letters  always  get  into  the  papers." 

"But  cautiously  worded,  —  no  danger  of  publication,  on  my 
honour." 

"I  '11  think  of  it.     Good-night." 


BOOK    VII. 


Xp^  ws  optffTOV  ix\v  aitrhv  ireipaadai,   ytVfO-dat,  fih  l^ovov  Se  ahrhv  uonl^nv 
apL^TOf  Svvaffdai  -ytviaeai,  etc.  —  Plotinus  :  En.    11,  lib.  ix.  c.  9. 

"  Every  man  should  strive  to  be  as  good  as  possible,  but  not  suppose  him- 
self to  be  the  ouly  thing  that  is  good." 


CHAPTER   I. 

Deceit  is  the  strong  but  subtle  chain  which  runs  through  all  the  members 
of  a  society  and  links  them  together ;  trick  or  be  tricked  is  the  alternative ; 
'tis  the  way  of  the  world,  and  without  it  intercourse  would  drop.  —  Anony- 
mous WRITER  OF   1722. 

A  lovely  child  she  was,  of  looks  serene, 

And  motions  wliich  o'er  things  indifferent  shed 

The  grace  and  gentleness  from  whence  they  came. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shellet. 

His  years  but  young,  but  his  experience  old.  —  Shakspeare. 

He  after  honour  hunts,  I  after  love.  —  Shakspeare. 

LuMLEY  Ferrers  was  one  of  the  few  men  in  tlie  world  who 
act  upon  a  profound,  deliberate,  and  organized  system;  he 
had  done  so  even  from  a  boy.  When  he  was  twenty-one,  he 
had  said  to  himself,  "Youth  is  the  season  for  enjoyment:  the 
triumphs  of  manhood,  the  wealth  of  age,  do  not  compensate 
for  a  youth  spent  in  unpleasurable  toils."  Agreeably  to  this 
maxim,  he  had  resolved  not  to  adopt  any  profession;  and  be- 
ing fond  of  travel,  and  of  a  restless  temper,  he  had  indulged 
abroad  in  all  the  gratifications  that  his  moderate  income  could 
afford  him.  That  income  went  further  on  the  Continent  than 
at  home,  which  was  another  reason  for  the  prolongation  of  his 


272  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

travels.  Now,  wlien  the  wliims  and  passions  of  youth  were 
sated,  and  ripened  by  a  consummate  and  various  knowledge  of 
mankind,  his  harder  capacities  of  mind  became  developed, 
and  centred  into  such  ambition  as  it  was  his  nature  to  con- 
ceive, he  acted  no  less  upon  a  regular  and  methodical  plan  of 
conduct,  which  he  carried  into  details.  He  had  little  or 
nothing  within  himself  to  cross  his  cold  theories  by  contra- 
dictory practice ;  for  he  was  curbed  by  no  principles,  and  reg- 
ulated but  by  few  tastes, —  and  our  tastes  are  often  checks  as 
powerful  as  our  principles.  Looking  round  the  English 
world,  Ferrers  saw  that  at  his  age  and  with  an  equivocal  posi- 
tion, and  no  chances  to  throw  away,  it  was  necessary  that  he 
should  cast  off  all  attributes  of  the  character  of  the  wanderer 
and  the  (jargon. 

"There  is  nothing  respectable  in  lodgings  and  a  cab,"  said 
Ferrers  to  himself, —  that  "self"  was  his  grand  confidant!  — 
"nothing  stationary.  Such  are  the  appliances  of  a  here-to- 
day-gone-to-morrow kind  of  life.  One  never  looks  substantial 
till  one  pays  rates  and  taxes  and  has  a  bill  with  one's 
butcher ! " 

Accordingly,  without  saying  a  word  to  anybody,  Ferrers 
took  a  long  lease  of  a  large  house  in  one  of  those  quiet  streets 
that  proclaim  the  owners  do  not  wish  to  be  made  by  fashion- 
able situations, —  streets  in  which,  if  you  have  a  large  house, 
it  is  supposed  to  be  because  you  can  afford  one.  He  was  very 
particular  in  its  being  a  respectable  street:  Great  George 
Street,  "Westminster,  was  the  one  he  selected. 

No  frippery  or  baubles  common  to  the  mansions  of  young 
bachelors,  no  buhl  and  marquetry  and  Sevres  china  and  cab- 
inet pictures,  distinguished  the  large,  dingy  drawing-rooms 
of  Lumley  Ferrers.  He  bought  all  the  old  furniture  a  bargain 
of  the  late  tenant, — tea-coloured  chintz  curtains,  and  chairs 
and  sofas  that  were  venerable  and  solemn  with  the  accumu- 
lated dust  of  twenty -five  years.  The  only  things  about  which 
he  was  particular  were  a  very  long  dining-table  that  would 
hold  four-and-twenty,  and  a  new  mahogany  sideboard.  Some- 
body asked  him  why  he  cared  about  such  articles.  "  I  don't 
know,"  said  he;  "but  I  observe  all  respectable  family  men  do. 


ERNEST   MALTRAYERS.  273 

There  must  be  something  in  it;  I  shall  discover  the  secret  by 
and  by." 

In  this  house  did  Mr.  Ferrers  ensconce  himself,  with  two 
middle-aged  maidservants  and  a  man  out  of  livery,  whom  he 
chose  from  a  multitude  of  candidates  because  the  man  looked 
especially  well  fed. 

Having  thus  settled  himself,  and  told  every  one  that  the 
lease  of  his  house  was  for  sixty-three  years,  Lumley  Ferrers 
made  a  little  calculation  of  his  probable  expenditure,  which 
he  found,  with  good  management,  might  amount  to  about  one 
fourth  more  than  his  income. 

"I  shall  take  the  surplus  out  of  my  capital,"  said  he,  "and 
try  the  experiment  for  five  years;  if  it  don't  do,  and  pay  me 
profitably,  why  then  either  men  are  not  to  be  lived  upon,  or 
Lumley  Ferrers  is  a  much  duller  dog  than  he  thinks  himself!  " 

Mr.  Ferrers  had  deeply  studied  the  character  of  his  uncle, 
as  a  prudent  speculator  studies  the  qualities  of  a  mine  in 
which  he  means  to  invest  his  capital,  and  much  of  his  present 
proceedings  was  intended  to  act  upon  the  uncle  as  well  as 
upon  the  world.  He  saw  that  the  more  he  could  obtain  for 
himself,  not  a  noisy,  social,  fashionable  reputation,  but  a  good, 
sober,  substantial  one,  the  more  highly  Mr.  Templeton  would 
consider  him,  and  the  more  likely  he  was  to  be  made  his  uncle's 
heir,  —  that  is,  provided  Mrs.  Templeton  did  not  supersede 
the  nepotal  parasite  by  indigenous  olive-branches.  This  last 
apprehension  died  away  as  time  passed  and  no  signs  of  fer- 
tility appeared.  And,  accordingly,  Ferrers  thought  he  might 
prudently  hazard  more  upon  the  game  on  which  he  now  ven- 
tured to  rely.  There  was  one  thing,  however,  that  greatly 
disturbed  his  peace :  Mr.  Templeton,  though  harsh  and  austere 
in  his  manner  to  bis  wife,  was  evidently  attached  to  her;  and 
above  all,  he  cherished  the  fondest  affection  for  his  step- 
daughter. He  was  as  anxious  for  her  health,  her  education, 
her  little  childish  enjoyments  as  if  he  had  been,  not  only  her 
parent,  but  a  very  doting  one.  He  could  not  bear  her  to  be 
crossed  or  thwarted.  Mr.  Templeton,  who  had  never  spoiled 
anything  before,  not  even  an  old  pen  (so  careful  and  calculat- 
ing and  methodical  was  he),  did  his  best  to  spoil  this  beauti- 

18 


274  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

ful  child,  whom  he  could  not  even  have  the  vain  luxury  of 
thinking  he  had  produced  to  the  admiring  world.  Softly, 
exquisitely  lovely  was  that  little  girl;  and  every  day  she  in- 
creased in  the  charm  of  her  person  and  in  the  caressing  fas- 
cination of  her  childish  ways.  Her  temper  was  so  sweet  and 
docile  that  fondness  and  petting,  however  injudiciously  ex- 
hibited, only  seemed  yet  more  to  bring  out  the  colours  of  a 
grateful  and  tender  nature.  Perhaps  the  measured  kindness 
of  more  reserved  affection  might  have  been  the  true  way  of 
spoiling  one  whose  instincts  were  all  for  exacting  and  return- 
ing love.  She  was  a  plant  that  suns  less  warm  might  have 
nipped  and  chilled.  But  beneath  an  uncapricious  and  un- 
clouded sunshine  she  sprang  up  in  a  luxurious  bloom  of  heart 
and  sweetness  of  disposition. 

Every  one,  even  those  who  did  not  generall}^  like  children, 
delighted  in  this  charming  creature,  excepting  only  Mr. 
Lumley  Ferrers.  But  that  gentleman,  less  mild  than  Pope's 
Narcissa, — 

"  To  make  a  wash,  had  gladly  stewed  the  child !  " 

He  had  seen  how  very  common  it  is  for  a  rich  man,  married 
late  in  life,  *to  leave  everything  to  a  young  widow  and  her 
children  by  her  former  marriage,  when  once  attached  to  the 
latter;  and  he  sensibly  felt  that  he  himself  had  but  a  slight 
hold  over  Templeton  by  the  chain  of  the  affections.  He  re- 
solved, therefore,  as  much  as  possible  to  alienate  his  uncle 
from  his  young  wife, —  trusting  that  as  the  influence  of  the 
wife  was  weakened,  that  of  the  child  would  be  lessened  also, 
—  and  to  raise  in  Templeton 's  vanity  and  ambition  an  ally 
that  might  supply  to  himself  the  Avant  of  love.  He  pursued 
his  twofold  scheme  with  masterly  art  and  address.  He  first 
sought  to  secure  the  confidence  and  regard  of  the  melancholy 
and  gentle  mother;  and  in  this  —  for  she  Avas  peculiarly  un- 
suspicious and  inexperienced  —  he  obtained  signal  and  com- 
plete success.  His  frankness  of  manner,  his  deferential 
attention,  the  art  with  which  he  warded  off  from  her  the 
spleen  or  ill-humour  of  Mr.  Templeton,  the  cheerfulness  that 
his  easy  gayety  threw  over  a  very  gloomy  bouse,  made  the 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  275 

poor  lady  hail  his  visits  and  trust  in  his  friendship.  Perhaps 
she  was  glad  of  any  interruption  to  tete-a-tetes  with  a  severe 
and  ungenial  husband,  who  had  no  sympathy  for  the  sorrows, 
of  whatever  nature  they  might  be,  which  preyed  upon  her, 
and  who  made  it  a  point  of  morality  to  find  fault  wherever 
he  could. 

The  next  step  in  Lumley's  policy  was  to  arm  Templeton's 
vanity  against  his  wife,  by  constantly  refreshing  his  con- 
sciousness of  the  sacrifices  he  had  made  by  marriage,  and  the 
certainty  that  he  would  have  attained  all  his  wishes  had 
he  chosen  more  prudently.  By  perpetually,  but  most  judi- 
ciously, rubbing  this  sore  point,  he,  as  it  were,  fixed  the  ir- 
ritability into  Templeton's  constitution,  and  it  reacted  on  all 
his  thoughts,  aspiring  or  domestic.  Still,  however,  to  Lum- 
ley's great  surprise  and  resentment,  while  Templeton  cooled 
to  his  wife,  he  only  warmed  to  her  child.  Lumley  had  not 
calculated  enough  upon  the  thirst  and  craving  for  affection  in 
most  human  hearts;  and  Templeton,  though  not  exactly  an 
amiable  man,  had  some  excellent  qualities.  If  he  had  less 
sensitively  regarded  the  opinion  of  the  world,  he  would  neither 
have  contracted  the  vocabulary  of  cant,  nor  sickened  for  a 
peerage;  both  his  affectation  of  saintship,  and  his  gnawing 
desire  of  rank,  arose  from  an  extraordinary  and  morbid  de- 
ference to  opinion,  and  a  wish  for  worldly  honours  and  respect, 
which  he  felt  that  his  mere  talents  could  not  secure  to  him. 
But  he  was  at  bottom  a  kindly  man,  —  charitable  to  the  poor, 
considerate  to  his  servants,  and  had  within  him  the  want  to 
love  and  be  loved,  which  is  one  of  the  desires  wherewith  the 
atoms  of  the  universe  are  cemented  and  harmonized.  Had 
Mrs.  Templeton  evinced  love  to  him,  he  might  have  defied 
all  Lumley's  diplomacy,  been  consoled  for  worldly  disadvant- 
ages, and  been  a  good  and  even  uxorious  husband.  But  she 
evidently  did  not  love  him,  though  an  admirable,  patient, 
provident  wife;  and  her  daughter  did  love  him, —  love  him  as 
well  even  as  she  loved  her  mother;  and  the  hard  worldling 
would  not  have  accepted  a  kingdom  as  the  price  of  that  little 
fountain  of  pure  and  ever-refreshing  tenderness.  Wise  and 
penetrating  as  Lumley  was,  he  never  could  thoroughly  under- 


276  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

staud  this  weakness,  as  he  called  it;  for  we  never  know  men 
entirely,  unless  we  have  complete  sympathies  with  men  iu 
all  their  natural  emotions, —  and  Kature  had  left  the  work- 
manship of  Lumley  Ferrers  unfinished  and  incomplete,  by 
denying  him  the  possibility  of  caring  for  anything  but  himself. 

His  plan  for  winning  Templeton's  esteem  and  deference 
was,  however,  completely  triumphant.  He  took  care  that 
nothing  in  his  menage  should  appear  "extravagant;"  all  was 
sober,  quiet,  and  well-regulated.  He  declared  that  he  had  so 
managed  as  to  live  within  his  income;  and  Templeton,  receiv- 
ing no  hint  for  money,  nor  aware  that  Ferrers  had  on  the 
Continent  consumed  a  considerable  portion  of  his  means,  be- 
lieved him.  Ferrers  gave  a  great  many  dinners,  but  he  did 
not  go  on  that  foolish  plan,  which  has  been  laid  down  by  per- 
sons who  pretend  to  know  life,  as  a  means  of  popularity, —  he 
did  not  profess  to  give  dinners  better  than  other  people.  He 
knew  that  unless  you  are  a  very  rich  or  a  very  great  man,  no 
folly  is  equal  to  that  of  thinking  that  you  soften  the  hearts  of 
your  friends  by  soups  a  la  bisque,  and  Johannisberg  at  a  guinea 
a  bottle.  They  all  go  away  saying,  "What  right  has  that 
d — d  fellow  to  give  a  better  dinner  than  we  do?  What  horrid 
taste !     What  ridiculous  presumption !  " 

No;  though  Ferrers  himself  was  a  most  scientific  epicure, 
and  held  the  luxury  of  the  palate  at  the  highest  possible 
price,  he  dieted  his  friends  on  what  he  termed  ^^respectable 
fare."  His  cook  put  plenty  of  flour  into  the  oyster  sauce; 
cod's-head  and  shoulders  made  his  invariable  fish;  and  four 
entrees,  without  flavour  or  pretence,  were  duly  supplied  by 
the  pastrycook,  and  carefully  eschewed  by  the  host.  Neither 
did  Mr.  Ferrers  affect  to  bring  about  him  gay  wits  and  bril- 
liant talkers.  He  confined  himself  to  men  of  substantial  con- 
sideration, and  generally  took  care  to  be  himself  the  cleverest 
person  present;  while  he  turned  the  conversation  on  serious 
matters  crammed  for  the  occasion, —  politics,  stocks,  com- 
merce, and  the  criminal  code.  Pruning  his  gayety,  though  he 
retained  his  frankness,  he  sought  to  be  known  as  a  highly-in- 
formed, painstaking  man,  who  would  be  sure  to  rise.  His 
connections  and  a  certain  nameless  charm  about  him,  consist- 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  277 

ing  chiefly  in  a  pleasant  countenance,  a  bold  yet  winning 
candour,  and  the  absence  of  all  hauteur  or  pretence,  enabled 
him  to  assemble  round  this  plain  table,  which,  if  it  gratified 
no  taste,  wounded  no  self-love,  a  sufficient  number  of  public 
men  of  rank  and  eminent  men  of  business  to  answer  his  pur- 
pose. The  situation  he  had  chosen,  so  near  the  Houses  of 
Parliament,  was  convenient  to  politicians,  and  by  degrees  the 
large,  dingy  drawing-rooms  became  a  frequent  resort  for 
public  men  to  talk  over  those  thousand  underplots  by  which  a 
party  is  served  or  attacked.  Thus,  though  not  in  parliament 
himself,  Ferrers  became  insensibly  associated  with  parlia- 
mentary men  and  things,  and  the  ministerial  party,  whose 
politics  he  espoused,  praised  him  highly,  made  use  of  him, 
and  meant,  some  day  or  other,  to  do  something  for  him. 

While  the  career  of  this  able  and  unprincipled  man  thus 
opened, —  and  of  course  the  opening  was  not  made  in  a  day, 
—  Ernest  Maltravers  was  ascending  by  a  rough,  thorny,  and 
encumbered  path  to  that  eminence  on  which  the  monuments 
of  men  are  built.  His  success  in  public  life  was  not  brilliant 
nor  sudden;  for  though  he  had  eloquence  and  knowledge,  he 
disdained  all  oratorical  devices,  and  though  he  had  passion 
and  energy,  he  could  scarcely  be  called  a  warm  partisan.  He 
met  with  much  envy  and  many  obstacles;  and  the  gracious 
and  buoyant  sociality  of  temper  and  manners  that  had  in 
early  youth  made  him  the  idol  of  his  contemporaries  at  school 
or  college,  had  long  since  faded  away  into  a  cold,  settled,  and 
lofty,  though  gentle,  reserve,  which  did  not  attract  towards 
him  the  animal  spirits  of  the  herd.  But  though  he  spoke  sel- 
dom, and  heard  many  with  half  his  powers  more  enthusias- 
tically cheered,  he  did  not  fail  of  commanding  attention  and 
respect;  and  though  no  darling  of  cliques  and  parties,  yet  in 
that  great  body  of  the  people  who  were  ever  the  audience  and 
tribunal  to  which,  in  letters  or  in  politics,  Maltravers  ap- 
pealed, there  was  silently  growing  up,  and  spreading  wide,  a 
belief  in  his  upright  intentions,  his  unpurchasable  honour, 
and  his  correct  and  well-considered  views.  He  felt  that  his 
name  was  safely  invested,  though  the  return  for  the  capital 
was  slow  and  moderate.     He  was  contented  to  abide  his  time. 


278  ERXEST   MALTRAVERS. 

Every  day  he  grew  more  attached  to  that  only  true  philoso- 
phy which  makes  a  man,  as  far  as  the  world  will  permit,  a 
world  to  himself;  and  from  the  height  of  a  tranquil  and  serene 
self-esteem,  he  felt  the  sun  shine  above  him,  when  malignant 
clouds  spread  sullen  and  ungenial  below.  He  did  not  despise 
or  wilfully  shock  opinion,  neither  did  he  fawn  upon  and  flatter 
it.  Where  he  thought  the  world  should  be  humoured,  he  hu- 
moured; where  contemned,  he  contemned  it.  There  are  many 
cases  in  which  an  honest,  well-educated,  high-hearted  individ- 
ual is  a  much  better  judge  than  the  multitude  of  what  is  right 
and  what  is  wrong;  and  in  these  matters  he  is  not  worth  three 
straws  if  he  suffer  the  multitude  to  bully  or  coax  him  out  of 
his  judgment.  The  Public,  if  you  indulge  it,  is  a  most  dam- 
nable gossip,  thrusting  its  nose  into  people's  concerns,  where 
it  has  no  right  to  make  or  meddle ;  and  in  those  things  where 
the  Public  is  impertinent,  Maltravers  scorned  and  resisted  its 
interference  as  haughtily  as  he  would  the  interference  of  any 
insolent  member  of  the  insolent  whole.  It  was  this  mixture 
of  deep  love  and  profound  respect  for  the  eternal  people,  and 
of  calm,  passionless  disdain  for  that  capricious  charlatan,  the 
momentary  public,  which  made  Ernest  Maltravers  an  original 
and  solitary  thinker,  and  an  actor  in  reality  modest  and  be- 
nevolent, in  appearance  arrogant  and  unsocial.  "Pauperism, 
in  contradistinction  to  poverty,"  he  was  wont  to  say,  "is  the 
dependence  upon  other  people  for  existence,  not  on  our  own 
exertions;  there  is  a  moral  pauperism  in  the  man  who  is  de- 
pendent on  others  for  that  support  of  moral  life,  self-respect." 

Wrapped  in  this  philosophy,  he  pursued  his  haughty  and 
lonesome  way,  and  felt  that  in  the  deep  heart  of  mankind, 
when  prejudices  and  envies  should  die  off,  there  would  be  a 
sympathy  with  his  motives  and  his  career.  So  far  as  his  own 
health  was  concerned,  the  experiment  liad  answered.  No 
mere  drudgery  of  business, —  late  hours  and  dull  speeches, — 
can  produce  the  dread  exhaustion  which  follows  the  efforts  of 
the  soul  to  mount  into  the  higher  air  of  severe  thought  or  in- 
tense imagination.  Those  faculties  which  had  been  over- 
strained now  lay  fallow,  and  the  frame  rapidly  regained  its 
tone.     Of  private  comfort  and  inspiration  Ernest  knew  but 


ERNEST  MALTKAVERS.  279 

little.  He  gradually  grew  estranged  from  his  old  friend  Fer- 
rers, as  their  habits  became  opposed.  Cleveland  lived  more 
and  more  in  the  country,  and  was  too  well  satisfied  with  his 
quondam  pupil's  course  of  life  and  progressive  reputation  to 
ti'ouble  him  with  exhortation  or  advice.  Cesarini  had  grown 
a  literary  lion,  whose  genius  was  vehemently  lauded  by  all 
the  reviews,  —  on  the  same  principle  as  that  which  induces  us 
to  praise  foreign  singers  or  dead  men :  we  must  praise  some- 
thing, and  we  don't  like  to  praise  those  who  jostle  ourselves. 
Cesarini  had  therefore  grown  prodigiously  conceited;  swore 
that  England  was  the  only  country  for  true  merit,  and  no 
longer  concealed  his  jealous  anger  at  the  wider  celebrity  of 
Maltravers.  Ernest  saw  him  squandering  away  his  sub- 
stance, and  prostituting  his  talents  to  drawing-room  trifles, 
Avith  a  compassionate  sigh.  He  sought  to  Avarn  him;  but 
Cesarini  listened  to  him  with  such  impatience  that  he  re- 
signed the  office  of  monitor.  He  wrote  to  De  IMontaigne, 
who  succeeded  no  better.  Cesarini  was  bent  on  playing  his 
own  game.  And  to  one  game,  without  a  metaphor,  he  had  at 
last  come.  His  craving  for  excitement  vented  itself  at  Haz- 
ard, and  his  remaining  guineas  melted  daily  away. 

But  De  Montaigne's  letters  to  Maltravers  consoled  him  for 
the  loss  of  less  congenial  friends.  The  Erenchman  was  now 
an  eminent  and  celebrated  man,  and  his  appreciation  of  Mal- 
travers was  sweeter  to  the  latter  than  would  have  been  the 
huzzas  of  crowds.  But  all  this  while  his  vanity  was  pleased 
and  his  curiosity  roused  by  the  continued  correspondence  of 
his  unseen  Egeria.  That  correspondence  (if  so  it  may  be 
called,  being  all  on  one  side)  had  now  gone  on  for  a  consider- 
able time,  and  he  was  still  wholly  unable  to  discover  the  au- 
thor. Its  tone  had  of  late  altered;  it  had  become  more  sad 
and  subdued;  it  spoke  of  the  hollowness  as  well  as  the  re- 
wards of  fame ;  and  with  a  touch  of  true  womanly  sentiment, 
often  hinted  more  at  the  rapture  of  soothing  dejection  than  of 
sharing  triumph.  In  all  these  letters  there  was  the  undenia- 
ble evidence  of  high  intellect  and  deep  feeling;  they  excited 
a  strong  and  keen  interest  in  ^laltravers, —  yet  the  interest 
was  not  that  which  made  him  wish  to  discover,  in  order  that 


280  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

he  might  love,  the  writer.  Tliey  were  for  the  most  part  too 
full  of  the  irony  and  bitterness  of  a  Tnan's  spirit  to  fascinate 
one  who  considered  that  gentleness  was  the  essence  of  a 
woman's  strength.  Temper  spoke  in  them,  no  less  than  mind 
and  heart;  and  it  was  not  the  sort  of  temper  which  a  man 
who  loves  women  to  be  womanly  could  admire. 

"  I  hear  you  often  spoken  of,"  ran  one  of  these  strange  epistles,  "  and 
I  am  ahnost  equally  angry  whether  fools  presume  to  praise  or  to  blame 
you.  This  miserable  world  we  live  in,  how  I  loathe  and  disdain  it !  yet 
I  desire  you  to  serve  and  to  master  it.  Weak  contradiction,  effeminate 
paradox.  Oh,  rather  a  thousand  times  that  you  would  fly  from  its  mean 
temptations  and  poor  rewards !  If  the  desert  were  your  dwelling-place 
and  you  wished  one  minister,  I  could  renounce  all  —  wealth,  flattery, 
repute,  womanhood  —  to  serve  you. 

"  I  once  admired  you  for  your  genius.  My  disease  has  fastened  on 
me,  and  I  now  almost  worship  you  for  yourself.  I  have  seen  you,  Ernest 
Maltravers,  —  seen  you  often,  —  and  when  you  never  suspected  that 
these  eyes  were  on  you.  Now  that  I  have  seen,  I  understand  you  better. 
We  cannot  judge  men  by  their  books  and  deeds.  Posterity  can  know 
nothing  of  the  beings  of  the  past.  A  thousand  books  never  written,  a 
thousand  deeds  never  done,  are  in  the  eyes  and  lips  of  the  few  greater 
than  the  herd.  In  that  cold,  abstracted  gaze,  that  pale  and  haughty 
brow,  I  read  the  disdain  of  obstacles  wliich  is  worthy  of  one  who  is  con- 
fident of  the  goal.  But  my  eyes  fill  with  tears  when  I  survey  you ! 
You  are  sad,  you  are  alone !  If  failures  do  not  mortify  you,  success 
does  not  elevate.  Oh,  Maltravers,  I,  woman  as  I  am,  and  living  in  a 
narrow  circle,  I,  even  I,  know  at  last  that  to  have  desires  nobler,  and 
ends  more  august,  than  others,  is  but  to  surrender  waking  life  to  morbid 
and  melancholy  dreams. 

"Go  more  into  the  world,  INIaltravers,  —  go  more  into  the  world,  or 
quit  it  altogether.  Your  enemies  must  be  met ;  they  accumulate,  they 
grow  strong.  You  are  too  tranquil,  too  slow  in  your  steps  towards  the 
prize  which  should  be  yours,  to  satisfy  my  impatience,  to  satisfy  your 
friends.  Be  less  refined  in  your  ambition,  that  you  may  be  more  imme- 
diately useful.  The  feet  of  clay,  after  all,  are  the  swiftest  in  the  race. 
Even  Lumley  Ferrers  will  outstrip  you  if  you  do  not  take  heed. 

"  Why  do  I  run  on  thus  ?  You  —  you  love  another ;  yet  you  are  not 
less  the  ideal  that  I  could  love,  —  if  I  ever  loved  any  one.  You  love  — 
and  yet  —  well,  no  matter." 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  281 


CHAPTER   II, 

Well,  but  this  is  being  only  an  official  nobleman.  No  matter,  't  is  still 
being  a  nobleman,  and  that  's  his  aim.  — Anonymous  writer  of  1772. 

La  musique  est  le  seul  des  talents  qui  jouissent  de  lui-meme ;  tous  les  autres 
veulent  des  te'moins.i  —  Marmontel. 

Thus  the  slow  ox  would  gaudy  trappings  claim.  —  Hor.\ce. 

Mr.  Templetox  had  not  obtained  his  peerage;  and  though 
he  had  met  with  no  direct  refusal,  nor  made  even  a  direct  ap- 
plication to  headquarters,  he  was  growing  sullen.  He  had 
great  parliamentary  influence,  —  not  close  borough,  illegiti- 
mate influence,  but  very  proper  orthodox  influence  of  charac- 
ter, wealth,  and  so  forth.  He  could  return  one  member  at 
least  for  a  city,  he  could  almost  return  one  member  for  a 
county,  and  in  three  boroughs  any  activity  on  his  part  could 
turn  the  scale  in  a  close  contest.  The  ministers  were  strong, 
but  still  they  could  not  afford  to  lose  supporters  hitherto  zeal- 
ous,—  the  example  of  desertion  is  contagious.  In  the  town 
which  Templeton  had  formerly  represented,  and  which  he 
now  almost  commanded,  a  vacancy  suddenly  occurred :  a  can- 
didate started  on  the  Opposition  side  and  commenced  a  canvass ; 
to  the  astonishment  and  panic  of  the  Secretary  of  the  Treas- 
ury, Templeton  put  forward  no  one,  and  his  interest  remained 
dormant.     Lord  Saxingham  hurried  to  Lumley. 

"My  dear  fellow,  what  is  this?  What  can  your  uncle  be 
about?  We  shall  lose  this  place, —  one  of  our  strongholds. 
Bets  run  even." 

"  Why,  you  see,  you  have  all  behaved  very  ill  to  my  uncle. 
I  am  really  sorry  for  it,  but  T  can  do  nothing." 

"What,  this  confounded  peerage!  Will  that  content  him, 
and  nothing  short  of  it?  " 

1  "  Music  is  the  sole  taleut  which  gives  pleasure  of  itself ;  all  the  others 
require  witnesses." 


282  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

"Notliing." 

"  He  must  have  it,  by  Jove !  " 

"And  even  tliat  may  come  too  late." 

"Ha!  do  you  tliinkso?" 

"Will  you  leave  the  matter  to  me?" 

"  Certainly.  You  are  a  monstrous  clever  fellow,  and  we  all 
esteem  you." 

"Sit  down  and  write  as  I  dictate,  my  dear  lord." 

"Well,"  said  Lord  Saxingham,  seating  himself  at  Lumley's 
enormous  writing-table,  "well,  go  on." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Templeton  —  " 

"Too  familiar,"  said  Lord  Saxingham. 
"Not  a.  bit;  go  on. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Templetox,  — We  are  anxious  to  secure  your  par- 
liamentary influence  in  C to  the  proper  quarter,  —  namely,  to  your 

own  family,  as  the  best  defenders  of  the  Administration  which  you  honour 
by  j^our  support.  We  wish  signally  at  the  same  time  to  express  our  con- 
fidence in  your  principles,  and  our  gratitude  for  your  countenance." 

"D — d  sour  countenance!  "  muttered  Lord  Saxingham. 

"  Accordingly,"  continued  Ferrers,  "  as  one  whose  connection  with 
you  permits  the  liberty,  allow  me  to  request  that  you  will  suffer  our  joint 
relation,  Mr.  Ferrers,  to  be  put  into  immediate  nomination." 

Lord  Saxingham  threw  down  the  pen  and  laughed  for  two 
minutes  without  ceasing.  "Capital,  Lumley,  capital!  Very 
odd  I  did  not  think  of  it  before." 

"Each  man  for  himself,  and  God  for  us  all,"  returned 
Lumley,  gravely;  "pray  go  on,  my  dear  lord. 

"  We  are  sure  you  could  not  have  a  representative  that  would  more 
faithfully  reflect  your  own  opinions  and  our  interests.  One  word  more. 
A  creation  of  peers  will  probably  take  place  in  the  spring,  among  which 
I  am  sure  your  name  would  be  to  his  Majesty  a  gratifying  addition. 
The  title  will  of  course  be  secured  to  your  sons,  and  failing  the  latter,  to 
your  nephew. 

"  W  ith  great  regard  and  respect, 

"  Truly  yours, 

"  Saxingham." 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  283 

"There!  inscribe  that  'Private  and  confidential,'  and  send 
it  express  to  my  uncle's  villa." 

*'  It  shall  be  done,  my  dear  Lumley ;  and  this  contents  me 
as  much  as  it  does  you.  You  are  really  a  man  to  do  us  credit. 
You  think  it  will  be  arranged?," 

"No  doubt  of  it." 

"Well,  good-day.  Lumley,  come  to  me  when  it  is  all  set- 
tled. Florence  is  always  glad  to  see  you,— she  says  no  one 
amuses  her  more ;  and  I  am  sure  that  is  rare  praise,  for  she  is 
a  strange  girl, —  quite  a  Timon  in  petticoats." 

Away  went  Lord  Saxingham. 

"  Florence  glad  to  see  me !  "  said  Lumley,  throwing  his 
arms  behind  him,  and  striding  to  and  fro  the  room.  "Scheme 
the  Second  begins  to  smile  upon  me  behind  the  advancing 
shadow  of  Scheme  One.  If  I  can  but  succeed  in  keeping  away 
other  suitors  from  my  fair  cousin  until  I  am  in  a  condition  to 
propose  myself,  why,  I  may  carry  oif  the  greatest  match  in  the 
three  kingdoms.      Courage,  mon  brave  Ferrers,  courage  ! ''"' 

It  was  late  that  evening  when  Ferrers  arrived  at  his  uncle's 
villa.  He  found  Mrs.  Templeton  in  the  drawing-room  seated 
at  the  piano.  He  entered  gently;  she  did  not  hear  him,  and 
continued  at  the  instrument.  Her  voice  was  so  sweet  and 
rich,  her  taste  so  pure,  that  Ferrers,  who  was  a  good  judge  of 
music,  stood  in  delighted  surprise.  Often  as  he  had  now 
been  a  visitor,  even  an  inmate,  at  the  house,  he  had  never  be- 
fore heard  Mrs.  Templeton  play  any  but  sacred  airs;  and  this 
Avas  one  of  the  popular  songs  of  sentiment.  He  perceived 
that  her  feeling  at  last  overpowered  her  voice,  and  she  paused 
abruptly,  and  turning  round,  her  face  was  so  eloquent  of 
emotion  that  Ferrers  was  forcibly  struck  by  its  expression. 
He  was  not  a  man  apt  to  feel  curiosity  for  anything  not  im- 
mediately concerning  himself;  but  he  did  feel  curious  about 
this  melancholy  and  beautiful  woman.  There  was  in  her 
usual  aspect  that  inexpressible  look  of  profound  resignation 
which  betokens  a  lasting  remembrance  of  a  bitter  past :  a  pre- 
maturely blighted  heart  spoke  in  her  eyes,  in  her  smile,  her 
languid  and  joyless  step.  But  she  performed  the  routine  of 
her  quiet  duties   vrith  a  calm    and   conscientious   regularity 


284  ERXEST   MALTRAYERS. 

which  showed  that  grief  rather  depressed  than  disturbed  her 
thoughts.  If  her  burden  were  heavy,  custom  seemed  to  have 
reconciled  her  to  bear  it  without  repining;  and  the  emotion 
which  Ferrers  now  traced  in  her  soft  and  harmonious  features 
was  of  a  nature  he  had  only  once  witnessed  before, —  namely, 
on  the  first  night  he  had  seen  her,  when  poetry,  which  is  the 
key  of  memory,  had  evidently  opened  a  chamber  haunted  by 
mournful  and  troubled  ghosts. 

"Ah I  dear  madam,"  said  Ferrers,  advancing,  as  he  found 
himself  discovered,  "I  trust  I  do  not  disturb  you;  my  visit  is 
unseasonable.     But  my  uncle,  where  is  he?" 

"He  has  been  in  town  all  the  morning;  he  said  he  should 
dine  out,  and  I  now  expect  him  every  minute." 

"You  have  been  endeavouring  to  charm  away  the  sense  of 
his  absence.  Dare  I  ask  you  to  continue  to  play?  It  is  sel- 
dom that  I  hear  a  voice  so  sweet  and  skill  so  consummate. 
You  must  have  been  instructed  by  the  best  Italian  masters." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Templeton,  with  a  very  slight  colour  in 
her  delicate  cheek,  "I  learned  young,  and  of  one  who  loved 
music  and  felt  it,   but  who  was  not  a  foreigner." 

"Will  you  sing  me  that  song  again?  You  give  the  words 
a  beauty  I  never  discovered  in  them;  yet  they,  as  well  as  the 
music  itself,  are  by  my  poor  friend  whom  Mr.  Templeton  does 
not  like,  —  Maltr avers. " 

"Are  they  his  also?"  said  Mrs.  Templeton,  with  emotion. 
"It  is  strange  I  did  not  know  it.  I  heard  the  air  in  the 
streets,  and  it  struck  me  much;  I  inqviired  the  name  of  the 
song  and  bought  it.     It  is  very  strange !  " 

"What  is  strange?" 

"That  there  is  a  kind  of  language  in  jonv  friend's  music 
and  poetry  which  comes  home  to  me  like  words  I  have  heard 
years  ago!     Is  he  young,  this  Mr.  Maltravers?" 

"Yes,  he  is  still  young." 

"And,  and  —  " 

Here  Mrs.  Templeton  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of 
her  husband.  He  held  the  letter  from  Lord  Saxingham;  it 
was  yet  unopened.  He  seemed  moody ;  but  that  was  common 
with  him.     He  coldly  shook  hands  with  Lumley,  nodded  to 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  285 

his  wife,  found  fault  with  the  fire,  and  throwing  himself  into 
his  easy -chair,  said,  "So,  Lumley,  I  think  I  was  a  fool  for 
taking  your  advice  and  hanging  back  about  this  new  election. 
I  see  by  the  evening  papers  that  there  is  shortly  to  be  a  crea- 
tion of  peers.  If  1  had  shown  activity  on  behalf  of  the  Gov- 
ernment, I  might  have  shamed  them  into  gratitude." 

"I  think  I  was  right,  sir,"  replied  Lumley;  "public  men 
are  often  alarmed  into  gratitude,  seldom  shamed  into  it. 
Firm  votes,  like  old  friends,  are  most  valued  when  we  think 
we  are  about  to  lose  them.  But  what  is  that  letter  in  your 
hand?," 

"Oh!  some  begging  petition,  I  suppose." 

"Pardon  me!  it  has  an  official  look." 

Templeton  put  on  his  spectacles,  raised  the  letter,  examined 
the  address  and  seal,  hastily  opened  it,  and  broke  into  an  ex- 
clamation very  like  an  oath.  When  he  had  concluded, — 
"Give  me  your  hand,  nephew, —  the  thing  is  settled.  I  am 
to  have  the  peerage.  You  were  right;  ha,  ha!  My  dear 
wife,  you  will  be  my  lady, —  think  of  that!  Are  n't  you  glad? 
Why  doesn't  your  ladyship  smile?  Where's  the  child, — 
where  is  she,  I  say?" 

"Gone  to  bed,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Templeton,  half  frightened. 

"  Gone  to  bed !  I  must  go  and  kiss  her.  Gone  to  bed,  has 
she?  Light  that  candle,  Lumley."  Here  Mr.  Templeton 
rang  the  bell.  "John,"  said  he,  as  the  servant  entered, — 
"John,  tell  James  to  go  the  first  thing  in  the  morning  to 
Baxter's  and  tell  him  not  to  paint  my  chariot  till  he  hears 
from  me.     I  must  go  kiss  the  child, —  I  must,  really." 

"  D —  the  child !  "  muttered  Lumley,  as,  after  giving  the 
candle  to  his  uncle,  he  turned  to  the  fire.  "What  the  deuce 
has  she  got  to  do  with  the  matter?  —  Charming  little  girl, 
yours,  madam!  How  I  love  her!  My  uncle  dotes  on  her, — 
no  wonder! " 

"He  is,  indeed,  very,  very  fond  of  her,"  said  Mrs.  Temjile- 
ton,  with  a  sigh  that  seemed  to  come  from  the  depth  of  her 
heart. 

"Did  he  take  a  fancy  to  her  before  you  were  married?" 

"  Yes,  I  believe  —  oh,  yes,  certainly !  " 


286  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

"Her  own  father  could  not  be  more  fond  of  her." 

Mrs.  Templeton  made  no  answer,  but  lighted  her  candle, 
and  wishing  Lumley  good-night,  glided  from  the  room. 

"I  wonder  if  my  grave  aunt  and  my  grave  uncle  took  a 
bite  at  the  apple  before  they  bought  the  right  of  the  tree. 
It  looks  suspicious, — yet  no,  it  can't  be;  there  is  nothing 
of  the  seducer  or  the  seductive  about  the  old  fellow.  It  is 
not  likely —     Here  he  comes." 

In  came  Templeton,  and  his  eyes  were  moist  and  his  brow 
relaxed. 

"And  how  is  the  little  angel,  sir?"  asked  Ferrers. 

"She  kissed  me,  though  I  woke  her  up,  —  children  are  usu- 
ally cross  when  wakened." 

"Are  they?  —  little  dears!  Well,  sir,  so  I  was  right,  then; 
may  I  see  the  letter?  " 

"There  it  is." 

Ferrers  drew  his  chair  to  the  fire,  and  read  his  own  produc- 
tion with  all  the  satisfaction  of  an  anonymous  author. 

"How  kind;  how  considerate;  how  delicately  put!  —  a 
double  favour!  But  perhaps,  after  all,  it  does  not  express 
your  wishes." 

"In  what  way?  " 

"  Why  —  why  —  about  myself. " 

"  You!  Is  there  anything  about  you  in  it?  I  did  not  ob- 
serve that,  —  let  me  see." 

"Uncles  never  selfish!  —  mem.  for  commonplace  book!" 
thought  Ferrers, 

The  uncle  knit  his  brows  as  he  re-perused  the  letter.  "  This 
won't  do,  Lumley,"  said  he,  very  shortly,  when  he  had  done. 

"A  seat  in  parliament  is  too  much  honour  for  a  poor 
nephew,  then,  sir?"  said  Lumley,  very  bitterly,  though  he 
did  not  feel  at  all  bitter;  but  it  was  the  proper  tone.  "I  have 
done  all  in  my  power  to  advance  your  ambition,  and  you  will 
not  even  lend  a  hand  to  forward  me  one  step  in  my  career. 
But  forgive  me,  sir,  I  have  no  right  to  expect  it." 

"Lumley,"  replied  Templeton,  kindly,  "you  mistake  me. 
I  think  much  more  highly  of  you  than  I  did, —  much.  There 
is  a  steadiness,  a  sobriety  about  you  most  praiseworthy,  and 


ERXEST   MALTRAVERS.  287 

you  shall    go   into    parliament  if  you  wish  it;    but   not    for 

C .     I  will  give  my  interest  there  to  some  other  friend  of 

the  Government,  and  in  return  they  can  give  you  a  Treasury 
borough!     That  is  the  same  thing  to  you." 

Lumley  was  agreeably  surprised;  he  pressed  his  uncle's 
hand  warmly,  and  thanked  him  cordially.  Mr.  Templeton 
proceeded  to  explain  to  him  that  it  was  inconvenient  and  ex- 
pensive sitting  for  places  where  one's  family  was  known,  and 
Lumley  fully  subscribed  to  all. 

"As  for  the  settlement  of  the  peerage,  that  is  all  right," 
said  Templeton;  and  then  he  sank  into  a  re  very  from  which 
he  broke  joyously.  "  Yes,  that  is  all  right.  I  have  projects, 
objects, —  this  may  unite  them  all;  nothing  can  be  better. 
You  will  be  the  next  lord,  what  —  I  say,  what  title  shall  we 
have?  " 

"Oh,  take  a  sounding  one!  You  have  very  little  landed 
property,  I  think?  " 

"Two  thousand  a  year  in shire, —  bought  a  bargain." 

"  What 's  the  name  of  the  place?  " 

"Grubley." 

"Lord  Grubley!  Baron  Grubley  of  Grubley,  —  oh,  atro- 
cious!    Who  had  the  place  before  you?  " 

"Bought  it  of  Mr.  Sheepshanks, —  very  old  family." 

"But  surely  some  old  Norman  once  had  the  place?" 

"Norman,  yes!  Henry  the  Second  gave  it  to  his  barber, — 
Bertram  Courval." 

"That's  it!  that 's  it!  Lord  de  Courval, —  singular  coinci- 
dence; descent  from  the  old  line!  Herald's  College  soon 
settle  all  that.  Lord  de  Courval, —  nothing  can  sound  better! 
There  must  be  a  village  or  hamlet  still  called  Courval  about 
the  property." 

"I  am  afraid  not.     There  is  Coddle  End." 

"  Coddle  End,  Coddle  End !  The  very  thing,  sir,  the  very 
thing, —  clear  corruption  from  Courval!  Lord  de  Courval  of 
Courval!     Superb!     Ha,  ha!" 

"Ha,  ha!  "  laughed  Templeton;  and  he  had  hardly  laughed 
before  since  he  was  thirty. 

The  relations  sat  long  and  conversed  familiarly.     Ferrers 


288  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

slept  at  the  villa,  and  his  sleep  was  sound,  for  he  thought 
little  of  plans  once  formed  and  half  executed ;  it  was  the  hunt 
that  kept  him  awake,  and  he  slept  like  a  hound  when  the  prey 
was  down.  Not  so  Templeton,  who  did  not  close  his  eyes  all 
night.  "Yes,  yes,"  thought  he,  "I  must  get  the  fortune  and 
the  title  in  one  line  by  a  prudent  management.  Ferrers  de- 
serves what  I  mean  to  do  for  him.  Steady,  good-natured, 
frank,  and  will  get  on, — yes,  yes;  I  see  it  all.     Meanwhile  I 

did  well  to  prevent  his  standing  for  C ;  might  pick  up 

gossip  about  Mrs.  T.,  and  other  things  that  might  be  un- 
pleasant.    Ah,   I  'm  a  shrewd  fellow !  " 


CHAPTER   III. 

Lauzun.     There,  Marquis,  there,  I  've  done  it. 
Montespan.     Done  it !  yes  !     Nice  doings  ! 

La  Duchesse  de  la  Valllere. 

LuMLEY  hastened  to  strike  while  the  iron  was  hot.  The 
next  morning  he  went  straight  to  the  Treasury,  saw  the  man- 
aging secretary, —  a  clever,  sharp  man,  who,  like  Ferrers, 
carried  oft"  intrigue  and  manoeuvre  by  a  blunt,  careless,  bluff 
manner. 

Ferrers  announced  that  he  was  to  stand  for  the  free,  re- 
spectable, open  city  of  C ,  with  an  electoral  population 

of  twenty-five  hundred.  A  very  showy  place  it  was  for  a 
member  in  the  old  ante-reform  times,  and  was  considered  a 
thoroughly  independent  borough.  The  secretary  congratu- 
lated and  complimented  him. 

"We  have  had  losses  lately  in  «?/?•  elections  among  the 
larger  constituencies,"  said  Lumley. 

"We  have  indeed,  —  three  towns  lost  in  the  last  six  months. 
Members  do  die  so  very  unseasonably." 

"Is  Lord  Staunch  yet  provided  for?  "  asked  Lumley. 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  289 

Now,  Lord  Staunch  was  one  of  the  popular  show-fight  great 
guns  of  the  Administration, —  not  in  office,  but  that  most  use- 
ful person  to  all  Governments,  an  out-and-out  supporter  upon 
the  most  independent  principles;  who  was  known  to  have  re- 
fused place,  and  to  value  himself  on  independence;  a  man 
who  helped  the  Government  over  the  stile  when  it  was  seized 
with  a  temporary  lameness,  and  who  carried  "great  weight 
with  him  in  the  country,"  Lord  Staunch  had  foolishly  thrown 
up  a  close  borough  in  order  to  contest  a  large  city,  and  had 
failed  in  the  attempt.  His  failure  was  everywhere  cited  as  a 
proof  of  the  growing  unpopularity  of  ministers. 

"  Is  Lord  Staunch  yet  provided  for?  "  asked  Lumley. 
"Why,  he  must  have  his  old  seat, —  Three-Oaks.     Three- 
Oaks  is  a  nice  quiet  little  place, —  most  respectable  constitu- 
ency; all  Staunch's  own  family." 

"  Just  the  thing  for  him.  Yet,  't  is  a  pity  that  he  did  not 
wait  to  stand  for  C ;  my  uncle's  interest  would  have  se- 
cured him." 

"Ay,  I  thought  so  the  moment  C was  vacant.  How- 
ever, it  is  too  late  now." 

"It  would  be  a  great  triumph  if  Lord  Staunch  could  show 
that  a  large  constituency  volunteered  to  elect  him  without 
expense." 

"  Without  expense !  Ah,  yes,  indeed !  It  would  prove  that 
purity  of  election  still  exists,  —  that  British  institutions  are 
still  upheld." 

"It  might  be  done,  Mr.  ." 

"  Why,  I  thought  that  you  —  " 

"Were  to  stand,  —  that  is  true;  and  it  will  be  difficult  to 
manage  my  uncle.  But  he  loves  me  much, —  you  know  I  am 
his  heir,  —  I  believe  I  could  do  it;  that  is,  if  you  think  it 
would  be  a  very  great  advantage  to  the  party,  and  a  very  great 
service  to  the  Government." 

"Why,  Mr.  Ferrers,  it  would  indeed  be  both." 
"And  in  that  case  I  could  have  Three-Oaks." 
"I  see, — exactly  so;  but  to  give  up  so  respectable  a  seat  — 
Really  it  is  a  sacrifice." 

"  Say  no  more ;  it  shall  be  done.     A  deputation  shall  wait 

19 


290  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

on  Lord  Staunch  directly.  I  will  see  my  uncle,  and  a  de- 
spatch shall  be  sent  down  to  C to-night, —  at  least,  I  hope 

so.  I  must  not  be  too  confident.  My  uncle  is  an  old  man, 
—  nobody  but  myself  can  manage  him;  I'll  go  this  instant." 

"You  may  be  sure  your  kindness  will  be  duly  appreciated." 

Lumley  shook  hands  cordially  with  the  secretary  and  re- 
tired. The  secretary  was  not  "humbugged,"  nor  did  Lumley 
expect  he  should  be.  But  the  secretary  noted  this  of  Lum- 
ley Ferrers  (and  that  gentleman's  object  was  gained),  that 
Lumley  Ferrers  was  a  man  who  looked  out  for  office,  and  if 
he  did  tolerably  w^ell  in  parliament,  that  Lumley  Ferrers  was 
a  man  who  ought  to  be  pushed. 

Very  shortly  afterwards  the  Gazette  announced  the  elec- 
tion of  Lord  Staunch  for  C ,  after  a  sharp  but  decisive 

contest.     The  ministerial  journals  rang  with  exulting  paeans ; 

the  opposition  ones  called  the  electors  of  C all  manner 

of  hard  names,  and  declared  that  Mr.  Stout,  Lord  Staunch's 
opponent,  would  petition, —  which  he  never  did.  In  the 
midst  of  the  hubbub  Mr.  Lumley  Ferrers  quietly  and  unob- 
servedly  crept  into  the  representation  of  Three-Oaks. 

On  the  night  of  his  election  he  went  to  Lord  Saxingham's; 
but  what  there  happened  deserves  another  chapter. 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  291 


CHAPTER   IV. 

Je  connais  des  princes  du  sang,  des  princes  ctrangers,  des  grands  seigneurs, 
des  ministres  d'e'tat,  des  magistrals,  et  des  philosophes  qui  fileraient  pour 
I'ainour  de  vous.  En  pouvez-vous  demander  davantage.'  —  Lettres  de  Madame 
de  Sevign^. 

Lindore.     I  —  I  believe  it  will  choke  me ;  I  'm  in  love.  .  ,  . 
Now  hold  your  tongue.     Hold  your  tongue,  I  say. 
Dalner.    You  in  love  ?     Ha!  ha! 
Lind,    There,  he  laughs  ! 

DaL.     No;  I  am  really  sorry  for  you  —  German  Play  (False  Delicacy). 
.    .    .     What  is  here  'i 

Gold.  —  Shakspeare. 

It  happened  that  that  evening  Maltravers  had,  for  the  first 
time,  accepted  one  of  many  invitations  with  which  Lord 
Saxingham  had  honoured  him.  His  lordship  and  Maltravers 
were  of  different  political  parties,  nor  were  they  in  other 
respects  adapted  to  each  other.  Lord  Saxingham  was  a  clever 
man  in  his  way,  but  worldly  even  to  a  proverb  among  worldly 
people.  That  "man  was  born  to  walk  erect,  and  look  upon 
the  stars,"  is  an  eloquent  fallacy  that  Lord  Saxingham  might 
suffice  to  disprove.  He  seemed  born  to  walk  with  a  stoop; 
and  if  he  ever  looked  upon  any  stars,  they  were  those  which 
go  with  a  garter.  Though  of  celebrated  and  historical  ances- 
try, great  rank,  and  some  personal  reputation,  he  had  all  the 
ambition  of  a  parvenu.  He  had  a  strong  regard  for  office,  not 
so  much  from  the  sublime  affection  for  that  sublime  thing, — 
power  over  the  destinies  of  a  glorious  nation,  —  as  because  it 
added  to  that  vulgar  thing, —  importance  in  his  own  set.  He 
looked  on  his  Cabinet  uniform  as  a  beadle  looks  on  his  gold 
lace.     He  also  liked  patronage,  secured  good  things  to  distant 

^  "  I  know  princes  of  the  blood,  foreign  princes,  great  lords,  ministers  of 
state,  magistrates,  and  philosophers  who  would  even  spin  for  love  of  you. 
What  can  you  ask  more  ^  " 


292  ERXEST  MALTRAYERS. 

connections,  got  on  his  family  to  the  remotest  degree  of  rela- 
tionship,—  in  short,  he  was  of  the  earth,  earthy.  He  did 
not  comprehend  Maltravers ;  and  Maltravers,  who  every  day 
grew  prouder  and  prouder,  despised  him.  Still,  Lord  Sax- 
ingham  was  told  that  Maltravers  was  a  rising  man,  and  he 
thought  it  well  to  be  civil  to  rising  men,  of  whatever  party ; 
besides,  his  vanity  was  flattered  by  having  men  who  are 
talked  of  in  his  train.  He  was  too  busy  and  too  great  a  per- 
sonage to  think  Maltravers  could  be  other  than  sincere  when 
he  declared  himself,  in  his  notes  "very  sorry,"  or  "much 
concerned*,"  to  forego  the  honour  of  dining  with  Lord  Saxing- 
ham  on  the,  etc.,  etc.,  and  therefore  continued  his  invita- 
tions till  IVIaltravers,  from  that  fatality  which  undoubtedly 
regulates  and  controls  us,  at  last  accepted  the  proffered 
distinction. 

He  arrived  late.  Most  of  the  guests  were  assembled,  and 
after  exchanging  a  few  words  with  his  host,  Ernest  fell  back 
into  the  general  group,  and  found  himself  in  the  immediate 
neighbourhood  of  Lady  Florence  Lascelles.  This  lady  had 
never  much  pleased  Maltravers,  for  he  was  not  fond  of  mas- 
culine or  coquettish  heroines,  and  Lady  Florence  seemed  to 
him  to  merit  both  epithets ;  therefore,  though  he  had  met  her 
often  since  the  first  day  he  had  been  introduced  to  her,  he 
had  usually  contented  himself  with  a  distant  bow  or  a  passing 
salutation.  But  now,  as  he  turned  round  and  saw  her,  she 
was,  for  a  miracle,  sitting  alone;  and  in  her  most  dazzling 
and  noble  countenance  there  was  so  evident  an  appearance  of 
ill  health  that  he  was  struck  and  touched  by  it.  In  fact, 
beautiful  as  she  was,  both  in  face  and  form,  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  eye  and  the  bloom  of  Lady  Florence  which  a 
skilful  physician  would  have  seen  with  prophetic  pain ;  and 
whenever  occasional  illness  paled  the  roses  of  the  cheek  and 
sobered  the  play  of  the  lips,  ev-en  an  ordinary  observer  would 
have  thought  of  the  old  commonplace  proverb,  "That  the 
brightest  beauty  has  the  briefest  life."  It  was  some  senti- 
ment of  this  kind,  perhaps,  that  now  awakened  the  sympathy 
of  Maltravers.  He  addressed  her  with  more  marked  courtesy 
than  usual,  and  took  a  seat  by  her  side. 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  293 

"You  have  been  to  the  House,  I  suppose,  Mr.  Maltravers?" 
said  Lady  Florence. 

"Yes,  for  a  short  time.  It  is  not  one  of  our  field-nights, 
—  no  division  was  expected ;  and  by  this  time,  I  dare  say,  the 
House  has  been  counted  out." 

"Do  you  like  the  life?" 

"  It  has  excitement, "  said  Maltravers,  evasively. 

"And  the  excitement  is  of  a  noble  character?  " 

"Scarcely  so,  I  fear, —  it  is  so  made  up  of  mean  and  malig- 
nant motives ;  there  is  in  it  so  much  jealousy  of  our  friends, 
so  much  unfairness  to  our  enemies;  such  readiness  to  attrib- 
ute to  others  the  basest  objects,  such  willingness  to  avail  our- 
selves of  the  poorest  stratagems !  The  ends  may  be  great,  but 
the  means  are  very  ambiguous." 

"I  knew  you  would  feel  this,"  exclaimed  Lady  Florence, 
with  a  heightened  colour. 

"Did  you?"  said  Maltravers,  rather  interested  as  well  as 
surprised.  "I  scarcely  imagined  it  possible  that  you  would 
deign  to  divine  secrets  so  insignificant." 

"You  did  not  do  me  justice,  then,"  returned  Lady  Florence, 
with  an  arch  yet  half  painful  smile;  "  for  —  But  I  was  about 
to  be  impertinent." 

"Nay,  say  on." 

"  For  —  then  —  I  do  not  imagine  you  to  be  one  apt  to  do  in- 
justice to  yourself." 

"Oh,  you  consider  me  presumptuous  and  arrogant;  but  that 
is  common  report,  and  you  do  right,  perhaps,  to  believe  it." 

"Was  there  ever  any  one  unconscious  of  his  own  merit?" 
asked  Lady  Florence,  proudly.  "They  who  distrust  them- 
selves have  good  reason  for  it." 

"  You  seek  to  cure  the  wound  you  inflicted, "  returned  Mal- 
travers, smiling. 

"No;  what  I  said  was  an  apology  for  myself,  as  well  as  for 
3^ou.  You  need  no  words  to  vindicate  you ;  you  are  a  man, 
and  can  bear  out  all  arrogance  with  the  royal  motto, —  Dieri  et 
rnon  droit.  With  you,  deeds  can  support  pretension;  but 
I  am  a  woman, —  it  was  a  mistake  of  Nature." 

"  But  what  triumphs  that  man  can  achieve  bring  so  imme- 


294  ERXEST  MALTRAVERS. 

diate,  so  palpable,  a  reward  as  those  won  by  a  woman,  beau- 
tiful and  admired, — who  finds  every  room  an  empire,  and 
every  class  her  subjects?" 

"It  is  a  despicable  realm." 

"What!  to  command,  to  win,  to  bow  to  your  worship  the 
greatest  and  the  highest  and  the  sternest ;  to  own  slaves  in 
those  whom  men  recognize  as  their  lords?  Is  such  a  power 
despicable?     If  so,  what  power  is  to  be  envied?" 

Lady  Florence  turned  quickly  round  to  Maltravers,  and 
fixed  on  him  her  large  dark  eyes,  as  if  she  would  read  into 
his  very  heart.  She  turned  away  with  a  blush  and  a  slight 
frown.     "There  is  mockery  on  your  lip,"  said  she. 

Before  Maltravers  could  answer,  dinner  was  announced, 
and  a  foreign  ambassador  claimed  the  hand  of  Lady  Florence. 
Maltravers  saw  a  young  lady,  with  gold  oats  in  her  very  light 
hair,  fall  to  his  lot,  and  descended  to  the  dining-room,  think- 
ing more  of  Lady  Florence  Lascelles  than  he  had  ever  done 
before. 

He  happened  to  sit  nearly  opposite  to  the  young  mistress 
of  the  house  (Lord  Saxingham,  as  the  reader  knows,  was  a 
widower,  and  Lady  Florence  an  only  child)  and  Maltravers 
was  that  day  in  one  of  those  felicitous  moods  in  which  our 
animal  spirits  search  and  carry  up,  as  it  were,  to  the  surface, 
our  intellectual  gifts  and  acquisitions.  He  conversed  gener- 
ally and  happily;  but  once,  when  he  turned  his  eyes  to  ap- 
peal to  Lady  Florence  for  her  opinion  on  some  point  in  dis- 
cussion, he  caught  her  gaze  fixed  upon  him  with  an  expression 
that  checked  the  current  of  his  gayety,  and  cast  him  into  a 
curious  and  bewildered  revery.  In  that  gaze  there  was  earn- 
est and  cordial  admiration ;  but  it  was  mixed  with  so  much 
mournfulness  that  the  admiration  lost  its  eloquence,  and  he 
who  noticed  it  was  rather  saddened  than  flattered. 

After  dinner,  when  Maltravers  sought  the  drawing-rooms, 
he  found  them  filled  with  the  customary  mob  of  good  society. 
In  one  corner  he  discovered  Castruccio  Cesarini  playing  on  a 
guitar  slung  across  his  breast  with  a  blue  ribbon.  The  Ital- 
ian sang  well ;  many  young  ladies  were  grouped  round  him, 
amongst  others  Florence  Lascelles.     Maltravers,  fond  as  he 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  295 

was  of  music,  looked  upon  Castruccio's  performance  as  a  dis- 
agreeable exhibition.  He  had  a  Quixotic  idea  of  the  dignity 
of  talent;  and  though  himself  of  a  musical  science  and  a  mel- 
ody of  voice  that  would  have  thrown  the  room  into  ectasies, 
he  would  as  soon  have  turned  juggler  or  tumbler  for  polite 
amusement  as  contend  for  the  bravoes  of  a  drawing-room.  It 
was  because  he  was  one  of  the  proudest  men  in  the  world  that 
Maltravers  was  one  of  the  least  vain ;  he  did  not  care  a  rush 
for  applause  in  small  things.  But  Cesarini  would  have  sum- 
moned the  whole  world  to  see  him  play  at  push-pin,  if  he 
thought  he  played  it  well. 

"Beautiful!  divine!  charming!"  cried  the  young  ladies, 
as  Cesarini  ceased;  and  Maltravers  observed  that  Florence 
praised  more  earnestly  than  the  rest,  and  that  Cesarini's  dark 
eyes  sparkled,  and  his  pale  cheek  flushed  with  unwonted  bril- 
liancy. Florence  turned  to  Maltravers,  and  the  Italian,  fol- 
lowing her  eyes,  frowned  darkly. 

"You  know  the  Signor  Cesarini,"  said  Florence,  joining 
Maltravers.     "He  is  an  interesting  and  gifted  person." 

"  Unquestionably.  I  grieve  to  see  him  wasting  his  talents 
upon  a  soil  that  may  yield  a  few  short-lived  flowers,  without 
one  useful  plant  or  productive  fruit." 

"He  enjoys  the  passing  hour,  Mr.  Maltravers;  and  some- 
times when  I  see  the  mortifications  that  await  sterner  labour, 
I  think  he  is  right." 

"Hush!  "  said  Maltravers;  "his  eyes  are  on  us,  —  he  is  lis- 
tening breathlessly  for  every  word  you  utter.  I  fear  that  you 
have  made  an  unconscious  conquest  of  a  poet's  heart;  and  if 
so,  he  purchases  the  enjoyment  of  the  passing  hour  at  a 
fearful  price." 

"Nay,"  said  Lady  Florence,  indifferently,  "he  is  one  of 
those  to  whom  the  fancy  supplies  the  place  of  the  heart. 
And  if  I  give  him  an  inspiration,  it  will  be  an  equal  luxury 
to  him  whether  his  lyre  be  strung  to  hope  or  disappointment. 
The  sweetness  of  his  verses  will  compensate  to  him  for  any 
bitterness  in  actual  life." 

"There  are  two  kinds  of  love,"  answered  Maltravers, — 
"love,  and  self-love;  the  wounds  of  the  last  are  often  most 


296  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

incurable  in  those  who  appear  least  vulnerable  to  the  first. 
Ah,  Lady  Florence,  were  I  privileged  to  play  the  monitor,  I 
would  venture  on  one  warning,  however  much  it  might  offend 
you." 

"  And  that  is  —  " 

"To  forbear  coquetry," 

Maltravers  smiled  as  he  spoke,  but  it  was  gravely,  and  at 
the  same  time  he  moved  gently  away.  But  Lady  Florence 
laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Mr.  Maltravers,"  said  she,  very  softly,  and  with  a  kind 
of  faltering  in  her  tone,  "am  I  wrong  to  say  that  I  am  anx- 
ious for  your  good  opinion?  Do  not  judge  me  harshly.  I  am 
soured,  discontented,  unhappy.  I  have  no  sympathy  with 
the  world.  These  men  whom  I  see  around  me,  what  are  they? 
The  mass  of  them  unfeeling  and  silken  egotists, —  ill-judging, 
ill-educated,  well-dressed;  the  few  who  are  called  distin- 
guished,—  how  selfish  in  their  ambition,  how  passionless  in 
their  pursuits!  Am  I  to  be  blamed  if  I  sometimes  exert  a 
power  over  such  as  these  which  rather  proves  my  scorn  of 
them  than  my  own  vanity?" 

"I  have  no  right  to  argue  with  you." 

"  Yes,  argue  with  me,  convince  me,  guide  me.  Heaven 
knows  that,  impetuous  and  haughty  as  I  am,  I  need  a  guide;" 
—  and  Lady  Florence's  eyes  swam  with  tears.  Ernest's  prej- 
udices against  her  were  greatly  shaken;  he  was  even  some- 
what dazzled  by  her  beauty,  and  touched  by  her  unexpected 
gentleness.  But  still,  his  heart  was  not  assailed,  and  he  re- 
plied almost  coldly,  after  a  short  pause, — 

"  Dear  Lady  Florence,  look  round  the  world :  who  so  much 
to  be  envied  as  yourself?  What  sources  of  happiness  and 
pride  are  open  to  you!  Why,  then,  make  to  yourself  causes 
of  discontent?  Why  be  scornful  of  those  who  cross  not  your 
path?  Why  not  look  with  charity  upon  God's  less-endowed 
children,  beneath  you  as  they  may  seem?  What  consolation 
have  you  in  hurting  the  hearts  or  the  vanities  of  others?  Do 
you  raise  yourself  even  in  your  own  estimation?  You  affect 
to  be  above  your  sex ;  yet  what  character  do  you  despise  more 
in  women  than  that  which  you  assume?     Semiramis  should 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  297 

not  be  a  coquette.  There,  now,  I  have  offended  you;  I  con- 
fess I  am  very  rude." 

"I  am  not  offended,"  said  Florence,  almost  struggling  with 
her  tears ;  and  she  added  inly,  "  Ah,  1  am  too  happy !  "  There 
are  some  lips  from  which  even  the  proudest  women  love  to 
hear  the  censure  which  appears  to  disprove  indifference. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Lumley  Ferrers,  flushed  with  the 
success  of  his  schemes  and  projects,  entered  the  room;  and 
his  quick  eye  fell  upon  that  corner,  in  which  he  detected 
what  appeared  to  him  a  very  alarming  flirtation  between  his 
rich  cousin  and  Ernest  Maltravers.  He  advanced  to  the  spot, 
and  with  his  customary  frankness  extended  a  hand  to  each. 

"Ah,  my  dear  and  fair  cousin!  give  me  your  congratula- 
tions, and  ask  me  for  my  first  frank,  —  to  be  bound  up  in  a 
collection  of  autographs  by  distinguished  senators ;  it  will  sell 
high  one  of  these  days.  Your  most  obedient,  Mr.  Maltrav- 
ers! How  we  shall  laugh  in  our  sleeves  at  the  humbug  of 
politics  when  you  and  I,  the  best  friends  in  the  world,  sit 
vis-d-vis  on  opposite  benches.  But  why,  Lady  Florence,  have 
you  never  introduced  me  to  your  pet  Italian?  Allans  !  I  am 
his  match  in  Alfieri,  whom,  of  course,  he  swears  by,  and  whose 
verses,  by  the  way,  seem  cut  out  of  box-wood, —  the  hardest 
material  for  turning  oft'  that  sort  of  machinery  that  invention 
ever  hit  on." 

Thus  saying,  Ferrers  contrived,  as  he  thought,  very  cleverly, 
to  divide  a  pair  that  he  much  feared  were  justly  formed  to 
meet  by  Nature;  and  to  his  great  joy,  Maltravers  shortly 
afterwards  withdrew. 

Ferrers,  with  the  happy  ease  that  belonged  to  his  compla- 
cent though  plotting  character  soon  made  Cesarini  at  home 
with  him;  and  two  or  three  slighting  expressions  which  the 
former  dropped  with  respect  to  Maltravers,  coupled  with 
some  outrageous  compliments  to  the  Italian,  completely  won 
the  heart  of  the  poet.  The  brilliant  Florence  was  more  silent 
and  subdued  than  usual,  and  her  voice  was  softer,  though 
graver,  when  she  replied  to  Castruccio's  eloquent  appeals. 
Castruccio  was  one  of  those  men  who  talk  fine.  By  degrees, 
Lumley  lapsed  into  silence,  and  listened  to  what  took  place 


298  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

between  Lady  Florence  and  the  Italian,  while  appearing  to 
be  deep  in  "The  Views  of  the  Rhine,"  which  lay  on  the  table. 

"Ah,"  said  the  latter,  in  his  soft  native  tougue,  "could 
you  know  how  I  watch  every  shade  of  that  countenance  which 
makes  my  heaven!  Is  it  clouded,  night  is  with  mej  is  it 
radiant,  I  am  as  the  Persian  gazing  on  the  sun !  " 

"Why  do  you  speak  thus  to  me?  Were  you  not  a  poet,  I 
might  be  angry." 

"You  were  not  angry  when  the  English  poet,  that  cold 
Maltravers,  spoke  to  you  perhaps  as  boldly." 

Lady  Florence  drew  up  her  haughty  head.  "Signor,"  said 
she,  checking,  however,  her  first  impulse,  and  with  mildness, 
"Mr.  Maltravers  neither  flatters  nor  —  " 

"Presumes,  you  were  about  to  say,"  said Cesarini,  grinding 
his  teeth.  "  But  it  is  well !  Once  you  were  less  chilling  to 
the  utterance  of  my  deep  devotion." 

"Never,  Signor  Cesarini,  never,  but  when  I  thought  it  was 
but  the  common  gallantry  of  your  nation;  let  me  think  so 
still." 

"No,  proud  woman,"  said  Cesarini,  fiercely;  "no,  —  hear 
the  truth." 

Lady  Florence  rose  indignantly. 

"Hear  me,"  he  continued.  "I  —  I,  the  poor  foreigner,  the 
despised  minstrel,  dare  to  lift  up  my  eyes  to  you!  I  love 
you!" 

Never  had  Florence  Lascelles  been  so  humiliated  and  con- 
founded. However  she  might  have  amused  herself  with  the 
vanity  of  Cesarini,  she  had  not  given  him,  as  she  thought, 
the  warrant  to  address  her  —  the  great  Lady  Florence,  the 
prize  of  dukes  and  princes  —  in  this  hardy  manner;  she  al- 
most fancied  him  insane.  But  the  next  moment  she  recalled 
the  warning  of  Maltravers,  and  felt  as  if  her  punishment  had 
commenced. 

"You  will  think  and  speak  more  calmly,  sir,  when  we  meet 
again;  "  and  so  saying  she  swept  away. 

Cesarini  remained  rooted  to  the  spot,  with  his  dark  coun- 
tenance expressing  such  passions  as  are  rarely  seen  in  the 
aspects  of  civilized  men. 


erxp:st  maltravers.  299 

"Where  do  you  lodge,  Signor  Cesarini?"  asked  the  bland, 
familiar  voice  of  Ferrers.  "  Let  us  walk  part  of  the  way  to- 
gether,—  that  is,  when  you  are  tired  of  these  hot  rooms." 

Cesarini  groaned.  "You  are  ill,"  continued  Ferrers;  "the 
air  will  revive  you,  —  come."  He  glided  from  the  room,  and 
the  Italian  mechanically  followed  him.  They  walked  together 
for  some  moments  in  silence  side  by  side,  in  a  clear,  lovely 
moonlight  night.  At  length  Ferrers  said:  "Pardon  me,  my 
dear  signor,  but  you  may  already  have  observed  that  I  am  a 
very  frank,  odd  sort  of  fellow.  I  see  you  are  caught  by  the 
charms  of  my  cruel  cousin.     Can  I  serve  you  in  any  way?  " 

A  man  at  all  acquainted  with  the  world  in  which  we  live 
would  have  been  suspicious  of  such  cordiality  in  the  cousin  of 
an  heiress  towards  a  very  unsuitable  aspirant.  But  Cesarini, 
like  many  indifferent  poets  (but  like  few  good  ones),  had  no 
common-sense.  He  thought  it  quite  natural  that  a  man  who 
admired  his  poetry  so  much  as  Lumley  had  declared  he  did, 
should  take  a  lively  interest  in  his  welfare;  and  he  therefore 
replied  warmly,  "  Oh,  sir,  this  is  indeed  a  crushing  blow !  I 
dreamed  she  loved  me.  She  was  ever  flattering  and  gentle 
when  she  spoke  to  me,  and  in  verse  already  I  had  told  her  of 
my  love,  and  met  with  no  rebuke." 

"Did  your  verses  really  and  plainl}'  declare  love,  and  in 
your  own  person?" 

"Why,  the  sentiment  was  veiled,  perhaps,  —  put  into  the 
mouth  of  a  fictitious  character,  or  conveyed  in  au  allegory." 

"  Oh !  "  ejaculated  Ferrers,  thinking  it  very  likely  that  the 
gorgeous  Florence,  hymned  by  a  thousand  bards,  had  done 
little  more  than  cast  a  glance  over  the  lines  that  had  cost  poor 
Cesarini  such  anxious  toil,  and  inspired  him  with  such  daring 
hope.  "Oh!  and  to-night  she  was  more  severe.  She  is  a 
terrible  coquette,  la  belle  Florence  !  But  perhaps  you  have  a 
rival?" 

"  I  feel  it  —  I  saw  it  —  I  know  it." 

"  Whom  do  you  suspect?  " 

"That  accursed  Maltravers!  He  crosses  me  in  every  path; 
my  spirit  quails  beneath  his  whenever  we  encounter.  I  read 
my  doom." 


300  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

"If  it  be  Maltravers,"  said  Ferrers,  gravely,  "the  danger 
cannot  be  great;  Florence  has  seen  but  little  of  him,  and  he 
does  not  admire  her  much.  But  she  is  a  great  match,  and  he 
is  ambitious.  We  must  guard  against  this  betimes,  Cesarini ; 
for  know  that  I  dislike  Maltravers  as  much  as  you  do,  and 
will  cheerfully  aid  you  in  any  plan  to  blight  his  hopes  in  that 
quarter." 

"Generous,  noble  friend!  Yet  he  is  richer,  better-born 
that  I." 

"That  may  be;  but  to  one  in  Lady  Florence's  position,  all 
minor  grades  of  rank  in  her  aspirants  seem  pretty  well  lev- 
elled. Come,  I  don't  tell  you  that  I  would  not  sooner  she 
married  a  countryman  and  an  equal,  but  I  have  taken  a  liking 
to  you,  and  I  detest  Maltravers.  She  is  very  romantic, — 
fond  of  poetry  to  a  passion;  writes  it  herself,  I  fancy.  Oh! 
you  '11  just  suit  her;  but,  alas!  how  will  you  see  her?" 

"See  her!     What  mean  you?" 

"Why,  have  you  not  declared  love  to-night?  I  thought  I 
overheard  you.  Can  you  for  a  moment  fancy  that  after  such 
an  avowal  Lady  Florence  will  again  receive  you, —  that  is, 
if  she  mean  to  reject  your  suit?" 

"Fool  that  I  was!     But  no, —  she  must,  she  shall." 

"Be  persuaded;  in  this  country  violence  will  not  do.  Take 
my  advice, —  write  an  humble  apology,  confess  your  fault,  in- 
voke her  pity;  and  declaring  that  you  renounce  forever  the 
character  of  a  lover,  implore  still  to  be  acknowledged  as  a 
friend.  Be  quiet,  now,  hear  me  out, —  I  am  older  than  you;  I 
know  my  cousin.  This  will  pique  her;  your  modesty  will 
soothe,  while  your  coldness  will  arouse,  her  vanity.  Mean- 
while, you  will  watch  the  progress  of  Maltravers, —  I  will  be 
by  your  elbow ;  and  between  us,  to  use  a  homely  phrase,  we 
will  do  for  him.  Then  you  may  have  your  opportunity,  clear 
stage,  and  fair  play." 

Cesarini  was  at  first  rebellious;  but  at  length  even  he  saw 
the  policy  of  the  advice.  But  Lumley  would  not  leave  him 
till  the  advice  was  adopted.  He  made  Castruccio  accompany 
him  to  a  club,  dictated  the  letter  to  Florence,  and  undertook 
its  charge.     This  was  not  all. 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  301 

"It  is  also  necessary,"  said  Lumley,  after  a  short  but 
thoughtful  sileuce,  "that  you  should  write  to  Maltravers." 

"And  for  what?" 

"I  have  my  reasons.  Ask  him,  in  a  frank  and  friendly 
spirit,  his  opinion  of  Lady  Florence;  state  your  belief  that 
she  loves  you,  and  inquire  ingenuously  what  he  thinks  your 
chances  of  happiness  in  such  a  union." 

"But  why  this?" 

"His  answer  may  be  useful,"  returned  Lumley,  musingly. 
"Stay,  I  will  dictate  the  letter." 

Cesarini  wondered  and  hesitated ;  but  there  was  that  about 
Lumley  Ferrers  which  had  already  obtained  command  over 
the  weak  and  passionate  poet.  He  wrote,  therefore,  as  Lum- 
ley dictated,  beginning  with  some  commonplace  doubts  as  to 
the  happiness  of  marriage  in  general,  excusing  himself  for 
his  recent  coldness  towards  Maltravers,  and  asking  him  his 
confidential  opinion  both  as  to  Lady  Florence's  character  and 
his  own  chances  of  success. 

This  letter,  like  the  former  one,  Lumley  sealed  and 
despatched. 

"You  perceive,"  he  then  said  briefly  to  Cesarini,  "that  it 
is  the  object  of  this  letter  to  entrap  Maltravers  into  some 
plain  and  honest  avowal  of  his  dislike  to  Lady  Florence ;  we 
may  make  good  use  of  such  expressions  hereafter,  if  he  should 
ever  prove  a  rival.  And  now  go  home  to  rest ;  you  look  ex- 
hausted.    Adieu,  my  new  friend." 

"I  have  long  had  a  presentiment,"  said  Lumley  to  his  coun- 
cillor, SELF,  as  he  walked  to  Great  George  Street,  "  that  that 
wild  girl  has  conceived  a  romantic  fancy  for  Maltravers.  But 
I  can  easily  prevent  such  an  accident  ripening  into  misfor- 
tune. Meanwhile,  I  have  secured  a  tool  if  I  want  one.  By 
Jove,  what  an  ass  that  poet  is!  But  so  was  Cassio;  yet 
lago  made  use  of  him.  If  lago  had  been  born  now,  and 
dropped  that  foolish  fancy  for  revenge,  what  a  glorious  fel- 
low he  would  have  been!     Prime  minister  at  least!  " 

Pale,  haggard,  exhausted,  Castruccio  Cesarini,  traversing  a 
length  of  way,  arrived  at  last  at  a  miserable  lodging  in  the  sub- 
urb of  Chelsea.    His  fortune  was  now  gone,  —  gone  in  supply- 


302  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

ing  the  poorest  food  to  a  craving  and  imbecile  vanity;  gone, 
that  its  owner  might  seem  what  Nature  never  meant  him  for, 
—  the  elegant  Lothario,  the  graceful  man  of  pleasure,  the 
troubadour  of  modern  life;  gone  in  horses  and  jewels  and 
fine  clothes  and  gaming  and  printing  unsalable  poems  on 
gilt-edged  vellum ;  gone,  that  he  might  not  be  a  greater,  but 
a  more  fashionable  man  than  Ernest  Maltravers !  Such  is  the 
common  destiny  of  those  poor  adventurers  who  confine  fame 
to  boudoirs  and  saloons.  No  matter  whether  they  be  poets  or 
dandies,  wealthy  parvenus  or  aristocratic  cadets,  all  equally 
prove  the  adage  that  the  wrong  paths  to  reputation  are 
strewed  with  the  wrecks  of  peace,  fortune,  happiness,  and 
too  often  honour !  And  yet  this  poor  young  man  had  dared 
to  hope  for  the  hand  of  Florence  Lascelles !  He  had  the  com- 
mon notion  of  foreigners  that  English  girls  marry  for  love, 
are  very  romantic;  that  within  the  three  seas  heiresses  are  as 
plentiful  as  blackberries;  and  for  the  rest,  his  vanity  had 
been  so  pampered  that  it  now  insinuated  itself  into  every  fibre 
of  his  intellectual  and  moral  system, 

Cesarini  looked  cautiously  round  as  he  arrived  at  his  door, 
for  he  fancied  that  even  in  that  obscure  place  persons  might 
be  anxious  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  celebrated  poet,  and  he 
concealed  his  residence  from  all,  dined  on  a  roll  when  he  did 
not  dine  out,  and  left  his  address  at  "The  Travellers."  He 
looked  round,  I  say,  and  he  did  observe  a  tall  figure  wrapped 
in  a  cloak,  that  had  indeed  followed  him  from  a  distant  and 
more  populous  part  of  the  town.  But  the  figure  turned  round 
and  vanished  instantly.  Cesarini  mounted  to  his  second 
floor.  And  about  the  middle  of  the  next  day  a  messenger  left 
a  letter  at  his  door,  containing  one  hundred  pounds  in  a  blank 
envelope.  Cesarini  knew  not  the  writing  of  the  address;  his 
pride  was  deeply  wounded.  Amidst  all  his  penury,  he  had 
not  even  applied  to  his  own  sister.  Could  it  come  from  her, 
from  De  Montaigne?  He  was  lost  in  conjecture.  He  put  the 
remittance  aside  for  a  few  days,  for  he  had  something  fine  in 
him,  the  poor  poet;  but  bills  grew  pressing,  and  necessity 
hath  no  law. 

Two  days  afterwards,  Cesarini  brought  to  Ferrers  the  an- 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  303 

swer  he  had  received  from  Maltravers.  Lumley  had  rightly 
foreseen  that  the  high  spirit  of  Ernest  woukl  conceive  some 
indignation  at  the  coquetry  of  Florence  in  beguiling  the  Italian 
into  hopes  never  to  be  realized,  and  that  he  would  express 
himself  openly  and  warmly.  He  did  so,  however,  with  more 
gentleness  than  Lumley  had  anticipated. 

"This  is  not  exactly  the  thing,"  said  Ferrers,  after  twice 
reading  the  letter ;  "  still,  it  may  hereafter  be  a  strong  card 
in  our  hands, — we  will  keep  it." 

So  saying,  he  locked  the  letter  up  in  his  desk,  and  Cesarini 
soon  forgot  its  existence. 


CHAPTER  V. 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 

When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight,  — 

A  lovely  apparition,  sent 

To  be  a  moment's  ornament.  —  Wordsworth. 

Maltravers  did  not  see  Lady  Florence  again  for  some 
weeks;  meanwhile,  Lumley  Ferrers  made  his  debut  in  parlia- 
ment. Rigidly  adhering  to  his  plan  of  acting  on  a  deliberate 
system,  and  not  prone  to  overrate  himself,  Mr.  Ferrers  did 
not,  like  most  promising  new  members,  try  the  hazardous 
ordeal  of  a  great  first  speech.  Though  bold,  fluent,  and 
ready,  he  was  not  eloquent;  and  he  knew  that  on  great  occa- 
sions, when  great  speeches  are  wanted,  great  guns  like  to 
have  the  fire  to  themselves.  iSTeither  did  he  split  upon  the 
opposite  rock  of  "promising  young  men,"  who  stick  to  "the 
business  of  the  House"  like  leeches,  and  quibble  on  details; 
in  return  for  which  labour  they  are  generally  voted  bores, 
who  can  never  do  anything  remarkable.  But  he  spoke  fre- 
quently, shortly,  courageously,  and  with  a  strong  dash  of  good- 
humoured  personality.  He  was  the  man  whom  a  minister 
could  get  to  say  something  which  other  people  did  not  like 
to  say ;  and  he  did  so  with  a  frank  fearlessness  that  carried 


304  ERNEST   MALTRAVEES. 

off  any  seeming  violation  of  good  taste.  He  soon  became  a 
very  popular  speaker  in  the  parliamentary  clique,  especially 
vy'ith  the  gentlemen  who  crowd  the  bar,  and  never  want  to 
hear  the  argument  of  the  debate.  Between  him  and  Mal- 
travers  a  visible  coldness  now  existed;  for  the  latter  looked 
upon  his  old  friend  (whose  principles  of  logic  led  him  even  to 
republicanism,  and  who  had  been  accustomed  to  accuse  Ernest 
of  temporizing  with  plain  truths  if  he  demurred  to  their  ap- 
plication to  artificial  states  of  society)  as  a  cold-blooded  and 
hypocritical  adventurer;  while  Ferrers,  seeing  that  Ernest 
could  now  be  of  no  further  use  to  him,  was  willing  enough  to 
drop  a  profitless  intimacy.  Nay,  he  thought  it  would  be  wise 
to  pick  a  quarrel  with  him,  if  possible,  as  the  best  means  of 
banishing  a  supposed  rival  from  the  house  of  his  noble  rela- 
tion. Lord  Saxingham.  But  no  opportunity  for  that  step  pre- 
sented itself;  so  Lumley  kept  a  fit  of  convenient  rudeness, 
or  an  impromptu  sarcasm,  in  reserve,  if  ever  it  should  be 
wanted. 

The  season  and  the  session  were  alike  drawing  to  a  close, 
when  Maltravers  received  a  pressing  invitation  from  Cleve- 
land to  spend  a  week  at  his  villa,  which  he  assured  Ernest 
would  be  full  of  agreeable  people ;  and  as  all  business  produc- 
tive of  debate  or  division  was  over,  Maltravers  was  glad  to 
obtain  fresh  air  and  a  chauge  of  scene.  Accordingly,  he  sent 
down  his  luggage  and  favourite  books,  and  one  afternoon  in 
early  August  rode  alone  towards  Temple  Grove.  He  was 
much  dissatisfied,  perhaps  disappointed,  with  his  experience 
of  public  life;  and  with  his  high-wrought  and  over-refining 
views  of  the  deficiencies  of  others  more  prominent,  he  was  in 
a  humour  to  mingle  also  censure  of  himself  for  having  yielded 
too  much  to  the  doubts  and  scruples  that  often  in  the  early 
part  of  their  career  beset  the  honest  and  sincere  in  the  turbu- 
lent whirl  of  politics,  and  ever  tend  to  make  the  robust  hues 
that  should  belong  to  action  — 

"  Sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought." 

His  mind  was  working  its  way  slowly  towards  those  conclu- 
sions which   sometimes  ripen  the  best  practical  men  out  of 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  305 

the  most  exalted  theorists;  and  perhaps  he  saw  before  liim 
the  pleasing  prospect  flatteringly  exhibited  to  another  when 
he  complained  of  being  too  honest  for  party, —  namely,  "of 
becoming  a  very  pretty  rascal  in  time!" 

For  several  weeks  he  had  not  heard  from  his  unknown  cor- 
respondent, and  the  time  was  come  when  he  missed  those  let- 
ters, now  continued  for  more  than  two  years,  and  which,  in 
their  eloquent  mixture  of  complaint,  exhortation,  despondent 
gloom,  and  declamatory  enthusiasm,  had  often  soothed  him 
in  dejection,  and  made  him  more  sensible  of  triumph.  While 
revolving  in  his  mind  thoughts  connected  with  these  sub- 
jects,—  and  somehow  or  other,  with  his  more  ambitious  rev- 
eries were  always  mingled  musings  of  curiosity  respecting  his 
correspondent, —  he  was  struck  by  the  beauty  of  a  little  girl, 
of  about  eleven  years  old,  who  was  walking  with  a  female 
attendant  on  the  footpath  that  skirted  the  road.  I  said  that 
he  was  struck  by  her  beauty;  but  that  is  a  wrong  expression: 
it  was  rather  the  charm  of  her  countenance  than  the  perfec- 
tion of  her  features  which  arrested  the  gaze  of  Maltravers, — 
a  charm  that  might  not  have  existed  for  others,  but  was  inex- 
pressibly attractive  to  him,  and  was  so  much  apart  from  the 
vulgar  fascination  of  mere  beauty  that  it  would  have  equally 
touched  a  chord  at  his  heart  if  coupled  with  homely  features 
or  a  bloomless  cheek.  This  charm  was  in  a  wonderful  inno- 
cent and  dove-like  softness  of  expression.  We  all  form  to 
ourselves  some  beau-ideal  of  the  "fair  spirit"  we  desire  as 
our  earthly  "minister,"  and  somewhat  capriciously  gauge  and 
proportion  our  admiration  of  living  shapes  according  as  the 
beau-ideal  is  more  or  less  embodied  or  approached.  Beauty 
of  a  stamp  that  is  not  familiar  to  the  dreams  of  our  fancy 
may  win  the  cold  homage  of  our  judgment,  while  a  look,  a 
feature,  a  something  that  realizes  and  calls  up  a  boyish  vision, 
and  assimilates  even  distantly  to  the  picture  we  wear  within 
us,  has  a  loveliness  peculiar  to  our  eyes,  and  kindles  an  emo- 
tion that  almost  seems  to  belong  to  memory.  It  is  this  which 
the  Platonists  felt  when  they  Avildly  supposed  that  souls  at- 
tracted to  each  other  on  earth  had  been  united  in  an  earlier 
being  and  a  diviner  sphere ;  and  there  was  in  the  young  face 

20 


306  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

on  which  Ernest  gazed  precisely  this  ineffable  harmony  with 
his  preconceived  notions  of  the  beautiful.  Many  a  nightly  and 
noonday  revery  was  realized  in  those  mild  yet  smiling  eyes 
of  the  darkest  blue ;  in  that  ingenuous  breadth  of  brow,  with 
its  slightly  pencilled  arches,  and  the  nose,  not  cut  in  that 
sharp  and  clear  symmetry  which  looks  so  lovely  in  marble, 
but  usually  gives  to  flesh  and  blood  a  decided  and  hard  char- 
acter that  better  becomes  the  sterner  than  the  gentler  sex, — 
no,  not  moulded  in  the  pure  Grecian,  nor  in  the  pure  Eoman 
cast,  but  small,  delicate,  with  the  least  possible  inclination 
to  turn  upward,  that  was  only  to  be  detected  in  one  position 
of  the  head,  and  served  to  give  a  prettier  archness  to  the 
sweet,  flexile  lips,  which,  from  the  gentleness  of  their  repose, 
seemed  to  smile  unconsciously,  but  rather  from  a  happy  con- 
stitutional serenity  than  from  the  giddiness  of  mirth.  Such 
was  the  character  of  this  fair  child's  countenance,  on  which 
Maltravers  turned  and  gazed  involuntarily  and  reverently, 
with  something  of  the  admiring  delight  with  which  we  look 
upon  the  Virgin  of  a  Raphael,  or  the  sunset  landscape  of  a 
Claude.  The  girl  did  not  appear  to  feel  any  premature 
coquetry  at  the  evident,  though  respectful,  admiration  she 
excited.  She  met  the  eyes  bent  upon  her,  brilliant  and  elo- 
quent as  they  were,  with  a  fearless  and  unsuspecting  gaze, 
and  pointed  out  to  her  companion,  with  all  a  child's  quick 
and  unrestrained  impulse,  the  shining  and  raven  gloss,  the 
arched  and  haughty  neck,  of  Ernest's  beautiful  Arabian. 

Now,  there  happened  between  Maltravers  and  the  young 
object  of  his  admiration  a  little  adventure,  which  served,  per- 
haps, to  fix  in  her  recollection  this  short  encounter  with  a 
stranger;  for  certain  it  is  that,  years  after,  she  did  remember 
both  the  circumstances  of  the  adventure  and  the  features  of 
Maltravers.  She  wore  one  of  those  large  straw-hats  which 
look  so  pretty  upon  children,  and  the  warmth  of  the  day  made 
her  untie  the  strings  which  confined  it.  A  gentle  breeze  arose, 
as  by  a  turn  in  the  road  the  country  became  more  open,  and 
suddenly  wafted  the  hat  from  its  proper  post  almost  to  the 
hoofs  of  Ernest's  horse.  The  child  naturally  made  a  spring 
forward  to  arrest  the  deserter,  and  her  foot  slipped  down  the 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  307 

bank,  which  was  rather  steeply  raised  above  the  road.  She 
uttered  a  low  cry  of  pain.  To  dismount,  to  regain  the  prize, 
and  to  restore  it  to  its  owner  was  with  Ernest  the  work  of  a 
moment;  the  poor  girl  had  twisted  her  ankle,  and  was  leaning 
upon  her  servant  for  support.  But  when  she  saw  the  anxiety, 
and  almost  the  alarm,  upon  the  stranger's  face  (and  her  ex- 
clamation of  pain  had  literally  thrilled  his  heart,  so  much 
and  so  unaccountably  had  she  excited  his  interest),  she  made 
an  effort  at  self-control  not  common  at  her  years,  and  with  a 
forced  smile  assured  him  she  was  not  much  hurt,  that  it  was 
nothing,  that  she  was  just  at  home. 

"  Oh,  miss !  "  said  the  servant,  "  I  am  sure  you  are  very 
bad.  Dear  heart,  how  angry  master  will  be !  It  was  not  my 
fault,  was  it,  sir?  " 

"Oh,  no,  it  was  not  your  fault,  Margaret;  don't  be  fright- 
ened,—  Papa  sha'n't  blame  you.  But  I  'm  much  better  now." 
So  saying,  she  tried  to  walk ;  but  the  effort  was  in  vain,  she 
turned  yet  more  pale,  and  though  she  struggled  to  prevent  a 
shriek,  the  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks. 

It  was  very  odd,  but  Maltravers  had  never  felt  more  touched. 
The  tears  stood  in  his  own  eyes;  he  longed  to  carry  her  in  his 
arms,  but,  child  as  she  was,  a  strange  kind  of  nervous  timidity 
forbade  him.  Margaret,  perhaps,  expected  it  of  him;  for 
she  looked  hard  in  his  face  before  she  attempted  a  burden  to 
which,  being  a  small,  slight  person,  she  was  by  no  means 
equal.  However,  after  a  pause  she  took  up  her  charge,  who, 
ashamed  of  her  tears,  and  almost  overcome  with  pain,  nestled 
her  head  in  the  woman's  bosom,  and  Maltravers  walked  by 
her  side,  while  his  docile  and  well-trained  horse  followed  at 
a  distance,  every  now  and  then  putting  its  fore-legs  on  the 
bank  and  cropping  away  a  mouthful  of  leaves  from  the 
hedgerow. 

"Oh,  Margaret!  "  said  the  little  sufferer,  "I  cannot  bear  it, 
indeed  I  cannot."  And  Maltravers  observed  that  Margaret 
had  permitted  the  lame  foot  to  hang  down  unsupported,  so 
that  the  pain  must  indeed  have  been  scarcely  bearable.  He 
could  restrain  himself  no  longer. 

"You  are  not  strong  enough  to  carry  her,"  said  he,  sharply. 


308  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

to  the  servant;  and  the  next  moment  the  child  was  in  his 
arms.  Oh,  with  wliat  anxious  tenderness  he  bore  her!  and 
he  was  so  happy  when  she  turned  her  face  to  him  and  smiled, 
and  told  him  she  now  scarcely  felt  the  pain.  If  it  were  pos- 
sible to  be  in  love  with  a  child  of  eleven  years  old,  Maltravers 
was  almost  in  love.  His  pulses  trembled  as  he  felt  her  pure 
breath  on  his  cheek,  and  her  rich,  beautiful  hair  was  waved 
by  the  breeze  across  his  lips.  He  hushed  his  voice  to  a  whis- 
per as  he  poured  forth  all  the  soothing  and  comforting  ex- 
pressions which  give  a  natural  eloquence  to  persons  fond  of 
children, —  and  Ernest  Maltravers  was  the  idol  of  children; 
he  understood  and  sympathized  with  them;  he  had  a  great 
deal  of  the  child  himself  beneath  the  rough  and  cold  husk  of 
his  proud  reserve.  At  length  they  came  to  a  lodge,  and  Mar- 
garet, eagerly  inquiring  "whether  master  and  missus  were  at 
home,"  seemed  delighted  to  hear  they  were  not.  Ernest, 
however,  insisted  on  bearing  his  charge  across  the  lawn  to 
the  house,  which,  like  most  suburban  villas,  was  but  a  stone's 
throw  from  the  lodge;  and  receiving  the  most  positive  prom- 
ise that  surgical  advice  should  be  immediately  sent  for,  he 
was  forced  to  content  himself  with  laying  the  sufferer  on  a 
sofa  in  the  drawing-room;  and  she  thanked  him  so  prettily, 
and  assured  him  she  was  so  much  easier,  that  he  would  have 
given  the  world  to  kiss  her.  The  child  had  completed  her 
conquest  over  him  by  being  above  the  child's  ordinary  little- 
ness of  making  the  worst  of  things,  in  order  to  obtain  the 
consequence  and  dignity  of  being  pitied, —  she  was  evidently 
unselfish,  and  considerate  for  others.  He  did  kiss  her,  but  it 
was  the  hand  that  he  kissed,  and  no  cavalier  ever  kissed  his 
lady's  hand  with  more  respect;  and  then,  for  the  first  time, 
the  child  blushed, —  then,  for  the  first  time,  she  felt  as  if  the 
day  would  come  when  she  should  be  a  child  no  longer!  Why 
was  this?  Perhaps  because  it  is  an  era  in  life, —  the  first 
sign  of  a  tenderness  that  inspires  respect,  not  familiarity. 

"If  ever  again  I  could  be  in  love,"  said  Maltravers,  as  he 
spurred  on  his  road,  "I  really  think  it  would  be  with  that 
exquisite  child.  My  feeling  is  more  like  that  of  love  at  first 
sight  than  any  emotion  which    beauty  ever  caused   in  me. 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  309 

Alice  —  Valerie  —  no;  the  first  sight  of  them  did  not —  But 
what  folly  is  this?  A  child  of  eleven,  and  I  verging  upon 
thirty!" 

Still,  however,  folly  as  it  might  be,  the  image  of  that 
young  girl  haunted  Maltravers  for  many  days,  till  change  of 
scene,  the  distractions  of  society,  the  grave  thoughts  of  man- 
hood, and,  above  all,  a  series  of  exciting  circumstances  about 
to  be  narrated,  gradually  obliterated  a  strange  and  most  de- 
lightful impression.  He  had  learned,  however,  that  Mr. 
Templeton  was  the  proprietor  of  the  villa  which  was  the 
child's  home.  He  wrote  to  Ferrers  to  narrate  the  incident 
and  to  inquire  after  the  sufferer.  In  due  time  he  heard  from 
that  gentleman  that  the  child  was  recovered,  and  gone  with 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Templeton  to  Brighton  for  change  of  air  and 
sea-bathing. 


BOOK    VIII. 


'EvBa IToAXas  e/xoXe  Kot 

Av\i6(t>pci)i'  Kinrpis-  — Euripides  :  Iphig.  in  Aul.,  1,  1310. 

"  Whither  come  Wisdom's  queen 
And  the  snare-weaving  Love  ?  " 


CHAPTER  I. 

Notitiam  primosque  gradus  viciuia  fecit.^  —  Ovid. 

Cleveland's  villa  was  full,  and  of  persons  usually  called 
agreeable.  Amongst  the  rest  was  Lady  Florence  Lascelles. 
The  wise  old  man  had  ever  counselled  Maltravers  not  to  marry 
too  young ;  but  neither  did  he  wish  him  to  put  off  that  mo- 
mentous epoch  of  life  till  all  the  bloom  of  heart  and  emotion 
was  passed  away.  He  thought,  with  the  old  law-givers,  that 
thirty  was  the  happy  age  for  forming  a  connection,  in  the 
choice  of  which,  with  the  reason  of  manhood,  ought  perhaps 
to  be  blended  the  passion  of  youth.  And  he  saw  that  few 
men  were  more  capable  than  Maltravers  of  the  true  enjoy- 
ments of  domestic  life.  He  had  long  thought,  also,  that  none 
were  more  calculated  to  sympathize  with  Ernest's  views,  and 
appreciate  his  peculiar  character,  than  the  gifted  and  bril- 
liant Florence  Lascelles.  Cleveland  looked  with  toleration 
on  her  many  eccentricities  of  thought  and  conduct, —  eccen- 
tricities which  he  imagined  would  rapidly  melt  away  beneath 
the  influence  of  that  attachment  which  usually  operates  so 
great  a  change  in  women,  and  where  it  is  strongly  and  in- 

1  "  Neighbourhood  caused  the  acquaintance  and  first  introduction." 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  311 

tensely  felt,  monlds  even  those  of  the  most  obstinate  char- 
acter into  compliance  or  similitude  with  the  sentiments  or 
habits  of  its  object. 

The  stately  self-control  of  Maltravers  was,  he  conceived, 
precisely  that  quality  that  gives  to  men  an  unconscious  com- 
mand over  the  very  thoughts  of  the  woman  whose  affection 
they  win;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  he  hoped  that  the  fancy 
and  enthusiasm  of  Florence  would  tend  to  render  sharper  and 
more  practical  an  ambition  which  seemed  to  the  sober  man  of 
the  world  too  apt  to  refine  upon  the  means,  and  to  cui-bono 
the  objects  of  worldly  distinction.  Besides,  Cleveland  was 
one  who  thoroughly  appreciated  the  advantages  of  wealth  and 
station ;  and  the  rank  and  the  dower  of  Florence  were  such  as 
would  force  Maltravers  into  a  position  in  social  life  which 
could  not  fail  to  make  new  exactions  upon  talents  which 
Cleveland  fancied  were  precisely  those  adapted  rather  to  com- 
mand than  to  serve.  In  Ferrers  he  recognized  a  man  to  get 
into  power, —  in  Maltravers  one  by  whom  power,  if  ever  at- 
tained, would  be  wielded  with  dignity,  and  exerted  for  great 
uses.  Something,  therefore,  higher  than  mere  covetousness 
for  the  vulgar  interests  of  Maltravers  made  Cleveland  desire 
to  secure  to  him  the  heart  and  hand  of  the  great  heiress;  and 
he  fancied  that,  whatever  might  be  the  obstacle,  it  would  not 
be  in  the  will  of  Lady  Florence  herself.  He  prudently  re- 
solved, however,  to  leave  matters  to  their  natural  course.  He 
hinted  nothing  to  one  party  or  the  other.  ISTo  place  for  fall- 
ing in  love  like  a  large  country-house,  and  no  time  for  it, 
amongst  the  indolent  well-born,  like  the  close  of  a  London 
season,  when,  jaded  by  small  cares,  and  sickened  of  hollow 
intimacies,  even  the  coldest  may  well  yearn  for  the  tones  of 
affection, — the  excitement  of  an  honest  emotion. 

Somehow  or  other,  it  happened  that  Florence  and  Ernest, 
after  the  first  day  or  two,  were  constantly  thrown  together. 
She  rode  on  horseback,  and  Maltravers  was  by  her  side;  they 
made  excursions  on  the  river,  and  they  sat  on  the  same  bench 
in  the  gliding  pleasure-boat.  In  the  evenings  the  younger 
guests,  with  the  assistance  of  the  neighbouring  families,  often 
got  up  a  dance  in  a  temporary  pavilion  built  out  of  the  dining- 


312  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

room,  Ernest  never  danced.  Florence  did  at  first;  but  once, 
as  she  was  conversing  with  Maltravers  when  a  gay  guardsman 
came  to  claim  her  promised  hand  in  the  waltz,  she  seemed 
struck  by  a  grave  change  in  Ernest's  face. 

"Do  you  never  waltz?"  she  asked,  while  the  guardsman 
was  searching  for  a  corner  wherein  safely  to  deposit  his  hat. 

"No,"  said  he;  "yet  there  is  no  impropriety  in  my 
waltzing. " 

"And  you  mean  that  there  is  in  mine? " 

"Pardon  me, —  I  did  not  say  so." 

"But  you  think  it." 

"jSTay,  on  consideration,  I  am  glad,  perhaps,  that  you  do 
waltz." 

"You  are  mysterious." 

"Well,  then,  I  mean  that  you  are  precisely  the  woman  I 
would  never  fall  in  love  with.  And  I  feel  the  danger  is 
lessened  when  I  see  you  destroy  any  one  of  my  illusions,  or, 
I  ought  to  say,  attack  any  one  of  my  prejudices." 

Lady  Florence  coloured;  but  the  guardsman  and  the  music 
left  her  no  time  for  reply.  However,  after  that  night  she 
waltzed  no  more.  She  was  unwell;  she  declared  she  was 
ordered  not  to  dance ;  and  so  quadrilles  were  relinquished,  as 
well  as  the  waltz. 

Maltravers  could  not  but  be  touched  and  flattered  by  this 
regard  for  his  opinion;  but  Florence  contrived  to  testify  it  so 
as  to  forbid  acknowledgment,  since  another  motive  had  been 
found  for  it.  The  second  evening  after  that  commemorated 
by  Ernest's  candid  rudeness,  they  chanced  to  meet  in  the 
conservatory,  which  was  connected  with  the  ballroom;  and 
Ernest,  pausing  to  inquire  after  her  health,  was  struck  by  the 
listless  and  dejected  sadness  which  spoke  in  her  tone  and 
countenance  as  she  replied  to  him. 

"Dear  Lady  Florence,"  said  he,  "I  fear  you  are  worse  than 
you  will  confess.  You  should  shun  these  draughts.  You 
owe  it  to  your  friends  to  be  more  careful  of  yourself." 

"Friends,"  said  Lady  Florence,  bitterly, —  "I  have  no 
friends!  Even  my  poor  father  would  not  absent  himself 
from  a  Cabinet  dinner  a  week  after  I  was  dead.     But  that  is 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  313 

the  condition  of  public  life, —  its  hot  and  searing  blaze  puts 
out  the  lights  of  all  lesser  but  not  unholier  affection.  Friends! 
Fate,  that  made  Florence  Lascelles  the  envied  heiress,  denied 
her  brothers,  sisters;  and  the  hour  of  her  birth  lost  her  even 
the  love  of  a  mother!     Friends!  where  shall  I  find  them? " 

As  she  ceased,  she  turned  to  the  open  casement  and  stepped 
out  into  the  veranda,  and  by  the  trembling  of  her  voice  Ernest 
felt  that  she  had  done  so  to  hide  or  to  suppress  her  tears. 

"  Yet, "  said  he,  following  her,  "  there  is  one  class  of  more 
distant  friends  whose  interest  Lady  Florence  Lascelles  cannot 
fail  to  secure,  however  she  may  disdain  it.  Among  the  hum- 
blest of  that  class  suffer  me  to  rank  myself.  Come,  I  assume 
the  privilege  of  advice :  the  night  air  is  a  luxury  you  must 
not  indulge." 

"No,  no;  it  refreshes  me,  it  soothes.  You  misunderstand 
me;  I  have  no  illness  that  still  skies  and  sleeping  flowers  can 
increase." 

Maltravers,  as  is  evident,  was  not  in  love  with  Florence, 
but  he  could  not  fail,  brought,  as  he  had  lately  been,  under 
the  direct  influence  of  her  rare  and  prodigal  gifts,  mental  and 
personal,  to  feel  for  her  a  strong  and  even  affectionate  inter- 
est; the  very  frankness  with  which  he  was  accustomed  to 
speak  to  her,  and  the  many  links  of  communion  there  neces- 
sarily were  between  himself  and  a  mind  so  naturally  powerful 
and  so  richly  cultivated,  had  already  established  their  ac- 
quaintance upon  an  intimate  footing. 

"I  cannot  restrain  you,  Lady  Florence,"  said  he,  half 
smiling,  "  but  my  conscience  will  not  let  me  be  an  accomplice. 
I  will  turn  king's  evidence,  and  hunt  out  Lord  Saxingham  to 
send  him  to  you." 

Lady  Florence,  whose  face  was  averted  from  his,  did  not 
appear  to  hear  him. 

"And  you,  Mr.  Maltravers,"  turning  quickly  round,  "you, 
—  have  you  friends?  Do  you  feel  that  there  are,  I  do  not 
say  public,  but  private  affections  and  duties,  for  which  life  is 
made  less  a  possession  than  a  trust?  " 

"Lady  Florence,  no.  I  have  friends,  it  is  true,  and  Cleve- 
land is  of  the  nearest;  but  the  life  within  life, —  the  second 


314  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

self,  in  whom  we  vest  the  right  and  mastery  over  our  own 
being, —  I  know  it  not.  But  is  it,"  he  added,  after  a  pause, 
"a  rare  privation?  Perhaps  it  is  a  happy  one.  I  have  learned 
to  lean  on  my  own  soul,  and  not  look  elsewhere  for  the  reeds 
that  a  wind  can  break." 

"Ah,  it  is  a  cold  philosophy;  you  may  reconcile  yourself 
to  its  wisdom  in  the  world,  in  the  hum  and  shock  of  men,  but 
in  solitude,  with  Nature,  ah,  no!  While  the  mind  alone  is 
occupied,  you  may  be  contented  with  the  pride  of  stoicism ; 
but  there  are  moments  when  the  heart  wakens  as  from  a  sleep, 
—  wakens  like  a  frightened  child, — to  feel  itself  alone  and  in 
the  dark." 

Ernest  was  silent,  and  Florence  continued,  in  an  altered 
voice:  "This  is  a  strange  conversation,  and  you  must  think 
me  indeed  a  wild,  romance-reading  person,  as  the  world  is 
apt  to  call  me.  But  if  I  live,  I  —  Pshaw!  life  denies  ambi- 
tion to  women." 

"  If  a  woman  like  you.  Lady  Florence,  should  ever  love,  it 
will  be  one  in  whose  career  you  may  perhaps  find  that  noblest 
of  all  ambitions,  the  ambition  women  only  feel, —  the  ambi- 
tion for  another." 

"  Ah,  but  I  shall  never  love, "  said  Lady  Florence,  and  her 
cheek  grew  pale  as  the  starlight  shone  on  it.  "Still,  per- 
haps," she  added  quickly,  "I  may  at  least  know  the  blessing 
of  friendship.  Why,  now,"  and  here,  approaching  Mal- 
travers,  she  laid  her  hand  with  a  winning  frankness  on  his 
arm, —  "why,  now,  should  not  we  be  to  each  other  as  if  love, 
as  you  call  it,  were  not  a  thing  for  earth,  and  friendship  sup- 
plied its  place?  There  is  no  danger  of  our  falling  in  love 
with  each  other.  You  are  not  vain  enough  to  expect  it  in 
me,  and  I,  you  know,  am  a  coquette ;  let  us  be  friends,  con- 
fidants,—  at  least  till  you  marry,  or  I  give  another  the  riglit 
to  control  my  friendships  and  monopolize  my  secrets." 

Maltravers  was  startled;  the  sentiment  Florence  addressed 
to  him,  he,  in  words  not  dissimilar,  had  once  addressed  to 
Valerie. 

"The  world,"  said  he,  kissing  the  hand  that  yet  lay  on  his 
arm,  "the  world  will  —  " 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  315 

" Oh,  you  men !  The  world,  the  world!  Everything  gentle, 
everything  pure,  everything  noble,  high-wrought,  and  holy, 
is  to  be  squared  and  cribbed  and  maimed  to  the  rule  and 
measure  of  the  world!  The  world  —  are  you  too  its  slave? 
Do  you  not  despise  its  hollow  cant,  its  methodical  hypocrisy?  " 

"Heartily!"  said  Ernest  Maltravers,  almost  with  fierce- 
ness. "No  man  ever  so  scorned  its  false  gods  and  its  miser- 
able creeds,  its  war  upon  the  weak,  its  fawning  upon  the 
great,  its  ingratitude  to  benefactors,  its  sordid  league  with 
mediocrity  against  excellence.  Yes,  in  proportion  as  I  love 
mankind,  I  despise  and  detest  that  worse  than  Venetian  oli- 
garchy which  mankind  set  over  them  and  call  'the  world.'  " 

And  then  it  was,  warmed  by  the  excitement  of  released 
feelings  long  and  carefully  shrouded,  that  this  man,  ordinarily 
so  calm  and  self-possessed,  poured  burningly  and  passionately 
forth  all  those  tumultuous  and  almost  tremendous  thoughts 
which,  however  much  we  may  regulate,  control,  or  disguise 
them,  lurk  deep  within  the  souls  of  all  of  us,  the  seeds  of 
the  eternal  war  between  the  natural  man  and  the  artificial, 
between  our  wilder  genius  and  our  social  conventionalities, — 
thoughts  that  from  time  to  time  break  forth  into  the  har- 
bingers of  vain  and  fruitless  revolutions,  impotent  struggles 
against  destiny ;  thoughts  that  good  and  wise  men  would  be 
slow  to  promulge  and  propagate,  for  they  are  of  a  fire  which 
burns  as  well  as  brightens,  and  which  spreads  from  heart  to 
heart  as  a  spark  spreads  amidst  flax;  thoughts  which  are 
rifest  where  natures  are  most  high,  but  belong  to  truths  that 
virtue  dare  not  tell  aloud.  And  as  Maltravers  spoke,  with 
his  eyes  flashing  almost  intolerable  light,  his  breast  heaving, 
his  form  dilated,  never  to  the  eyes  of  Florence  Lascelles  did 
he  seem  so  great;  the  chains  that  bound  the  strong  limbs  of 
his  spirit  seemed  snapped  asunder,  and  all  his  soul  was  visi- 
ble and  towering,  as  a  thing  that  has  escaped  slavery,  and 
lifts  its  crest  to  heaven  and  feels  that  it  is  free. 

That  evening  saw  a  new  bond  of  alliance  between  these  two 
persons :  young,  handsome,  and  of  opposite  sexes,  they  agreed 
to  be  friends,  and  nothing  more.     Fools! 


316  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS 


CHAPTER   II. 
Idem  velle,  et  idem  nolle,  ea  demum  firma  amicitia  est.i  —  Salldst. 

Carlos.     That  letter. 

Princess  Eboli.     Oh,  I  shall  die.     Return  it  instantly. 

Schiller  :  Don  Carlos. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  compact  Maltravers  and  Lady  Florence 
had  entered  into  removed  whatever  embarrassment  and  re- 
serve had  previously  existed.  They  now  conversed  with  an 
ease  and  freedom  not  common  in  persons  of  different  sexes 
before  they  have  passed  their  grand  climateric.  Ernest  in 
ordinary  life,  like  most  men  of  warm  emotions  and  strong 
imagination,  if  not  taciturn,  was  at  least  guarded.  It  was  as 
if  a  weight  were  taken  from  his  breast  when  he  found  one  per- 
son who  could  understand  him  best  when  he  was  most  candid. 
His  eloquence,  his  poetry,  his  intense  and  concentrated  en- 
thusiasm, found  a  voice.  He  could  talk  to  an  individual  as 
he  would  have  written  to  the  public,  —  a  rare  happiness  to  the 
men  of  books. 

Florence  seemed  to  recover  her  health  and  spirits  as  by  a 
miracle ;  yet  she  was  more  gentle,  more  subdued,  than  of  old, 
—  there  was  less  effort  to  shine,  less  indifference  whether  she 
shocked.  Persons  who  had  not  met  her  before,  wondered 
why  she  was  dreaded  in  society.  But  at  times  a  great  natural 
irritability  of  temper,  a  quick  suspicion  of  the  motives  of 
those  around  her,  an  imperious  and  obstinate  vehemence  of 
will,  were  visible  to  Maltravers,  and  served,  perhaps,  to  keep 
him  heart-whole.  He  regarded  her  through  the  eyes  of  the 
intellect,  not  those  of  the  passions ;  he  thought  not  of  her  as 
a  woman;  her  very  talents,  her  very  grandeur  of  idea  and 
power  of  purpose,  while  they  delighted  him  in  conversation, 
diverted  his  imagination  from  dwelling  on  her  beauty.     He 

1  "  To  will  the  same  thing  and  not  to  wiU  the  same  thing,  that  at  length 
is  firm  friendship." 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  317 

looked  on  her  as  something  apart  from  her  sex, —  a  glorious 
creature  spoiled  by  being  a  woman.  He  once  told  her  so, 
laughing,  and  Florence  considered  it  a  compliment.  Poor 
Florence,  her  scorn  of  her  sex  avenged  her  sex,  and  robbed 
her  of  her  proper  destiny ! 

Cleveland  silently  observed  their  intimacy,  and  listened 
with  a  quiet  smile  to  the  gossips  who  pointed  out  tete-a-tetes 
by  the  terrace,  and  loiterings  by  the  lawn,  and  predicted  what 
would  come  of  it  all.  Lord  Saxingham  was  blind.  But  his 
daughter  was  of  age,  in  possession  of  her  princely  fortune, 
and  had  long  made  him  sensible  of  her  independence  of  tem- 
per. His  lordship,  however,  thoroughly  misunderstood  the 
character  of  her  pride,  and  felt  fully  convinced  she  would 
marry  no  one  less  than  a  duke ;  as  for  flirtations,  he  thought 
them  natural  and  innocent  amusements.  Besides,  he  was 
very  little  at  Temple  Grove.  He  went  to  London  every 
morning  after  breakfasting  in  his  own  room,  came  back  to 
dine,  play  at  whist,  and  talk  good-humoured  nonsense  to 
Florence  in  his  dressing-room  for  the  three  minutes  that  took 
place  between  his  sipping  his  wine-and-water  and  the  appear- 
ance of  his  valet.  As  for  the  other  guests,  it  was  not  their 
business  to  do  more  than  gossip  with  each  other;  and  so 
Florence  and  Maltravers  went  on  their  way  unmolested, 
though  not  unobserved.  Maltravers,  not  being  himself  in 
love,  never  fancied  that  Lady  Florence  loved  him,  or  that 
she  would  be  in  any  danger  of  doing  so.  This  is  a  mistake 
a  man  often  commits, —  a  woman  never.  A  woman  always 
knows  when  she  is  loved,  though  she  often  imagines  she  is 
loved  when  she  is  not.  Florence  was  not  happy,  for  happi- 
ness is  a  calm  feeling;  but  she  was  excited  with  a  vague, 
wild,  intoxicating  emotion. 

She  had  learned  from  Maltravers  that  she  had  been  misin- 
formed by  Ferrers,  and  that  no  other  claimed  empire  over  his 
heart;  and  whether  or  not  he  loved  her,  still  for  the  present 
they  seemed  all  in  all  to  each  other:  she  lived  but  for  the 
present  day, — she  would  not  think  of  the  morrow. 

Since  that  severe  illness  which  had  tended  so  much  to  alter 
Ernest's  mode  of  life,  he  had  not  come  before  the  public  as 


318  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

an  author.  Latterly,  however,  the  old  habit  had  broken  out 
again.  With  the  comparative  idleness  of  recent  years,  the 
ideas  and  feelings  which  crowd  so  fast  on  the  poetical  tem- 
perament, once  indulged,  had  accumulated  within  him  to  an 
excess  that  demanded  vent.  For  with  some,  to  write  is  not 
a  vague  desire,  but  an  imperious  destiny.  The  fire  is  kindled 
and  must  break  forth;  the  wings  are  fledged,  and  the  birds 
must  leave  their  nest.  The  communication  of  thought  to  man 
is  implanted  as  an  instinct  in  those  breasts  to  which  Heaven 
has  intrusted  the  solemn  agencies  of  genius.  In  the  work 
which  Maltravers  now  composed  he  consulted  Florence.  His 
confidence  delighted  her, —  it  was  a  compliment  she  could  ap- 
preciate. Wild,  fervid,  impassioned,  was  that  work, —  a  brief 
and  holiday  creation ;  the  youngest  and  most  beloved  of  the 
children  of  his  brain.  And  as  day  by  day  the  bright  design 
grew  into  shape,  and  thought  and  imagination  found  them- 
selves "local  habitations,"  Florence  felt  as  if  she  were  ad- 
mitted into  the  palace  of  the  genii,  and  made  acquainted  with 
the  mechanism  of  those  spells  and  charms  with  which  the 
preternatural  powers  of  mind  design  the  witchery  of  the 
world.  Ah,  how  different  in  depth  and  majesty  were  those 
intercommunications  of  idea  between  Ernest  Maltravers  and  a 
woman  scarcely  inferior  to  himself  in  capacity  and  acquire- 
ment, from  that  bridge  of  shadowy  and  dim  sympathies  which 
the  enthusiastic  boy  had  once  built  up  between  his  own  i:)oetry 
of  knowledge  and  Alice's  poetry  of  love! 

It  was  one  late  afternoon  in  September,  when  the  sun  was 
slowly  going  down  its  western  way,  that  Lady  Florence,  who 
had  been  all  that  morning  in  her  own  room  paying  off,  as  she 
said,  the  dull  arrears  of  correspondence,  rather  on  Lord  Sax- 
ingham's  account  than  her  own;  for  he  punctiliously  exacted 
from  her  the  most  scrupulous  attention  to  cousins  fifty  times 
removed,  provided  they  were  rich,  clever,  well  off,  or  in  any 
way  of  consequence, —  it  was  one  afternoon  that,  relieved 
from  these  avocations.  Lady  Florence  strolled  through  the 
grounds  with  Cleveland.  The  gentlemen  were  still  in  the 
stubble-fields,  the  ladies  were  out  in  barouches  and  pony 
phaetons,  and  Cleveland  and  Lady  Florence  were  alone. 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  319 

A  propos  of  Florence's  epistolary  employment,  their  con- 
versation fell  upon  that  most  charming  species  of  literature, 
which  joins  with  the  interest  of  a  novel  the  truth  of  a  his- 
tor}', —  the  French  memoir  and  letter  writers.  It  was  a  part 
of  literature  in  which  Cleveland  was  thoroughly  at  home. 

"Those  agreeable  and  polished  gossips,"  said  he,  "how 
well  they  contrived  to  introduce  nature  into  art!  Everything 
artificial  seemed  so  natural  to  them.  They  even  feel  by  a 
kind  of  clockwork,  which  seems  to  go  better  than  the  heart 
itself.  Those  pretty  sentiments,  those  delicate  gallantries, 
of  Madame  de  S^vigne  to  her  daughter,  how  amiable  they 
are ;  but,  somehow  or  other,  I  can  never  fancy  them  the  least 
motherly.  What  an  ending  for  a  maternal  epistle  is  that 
elegant  compliment :  '  Songez  que  de  tons  les  coeurs  oii  vous 
regnez,  il  n'y  en  a  aucun  oii  votre  empire  soit  si  bien  etabli 
que  dans  le  mien. '  ^  I  can  scarcely  fancy  Lord  Saxingham 
writing  so  to  you,  Lady  Florence." 

"No,  indeed,"  replied  Lady  Florence,  smiling.  "Neither 
papas  nor  mammas  in  England  are  much  addicted  to  compli- 
ment; but  I  confess  I  like  preserving  a  sort  of  gallantry  even 
in  our  most  familiar  connections.  Why  should  we  not  carry 
the  imagination  into  all  the  affections?  " 

"I  can  scarce  answer  the  why,"  returned  Cleveland;  "but 
I  think  it  would  destroy  the  reality.  I  am  rather  of  the  old 
school.  If  I  had  a  daughter,  and  asked  her  to  get  my  slip- 
pers, I  am  afraid  I  should  think  it  a  little  wearisome  if  I 
had,  in  receiving  them,  to  make  des  belles  phrases  in  return." 

While  they  were  thus  talking,  and  Lady  Florence  con- 
tinued to  press  her  side  of  the  question,  they  passed  through 
a  little  grove  that  conducted  to  an  arm  of  the  stream  which 
ornamented  the  grounds,  and  by  its  quiet  and  shadowy  gloom 
was  meant  to  give  a  contrast  to  the  livelier  features  of  the 
domain.  Here  they  came  suddenly  upon  Maltravers.  He 
was  walking  by  the  side  of  the  brook,  and  evidently  absorbed 
in  thought. 

It  was  the  trembling  of  Lady  Florence's  hand  as  it  lay  on 

'  "  Tliink  that  of  all  the  hearts  over  which  you  reign,  there  is  not  one  in 
which  your  empire  can  be  so  well  estahlished  as  in  mine." 


320  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

Cleveland's  arm  that  induced  liim  to  stop  short  in  an  ani- 
mated commentary  on  Eochefoucauld's  character  of  Cardinal 
de  Eetz,  and  look  round. 

"Ha,  most  meditative  Jacques!  "  said  he.  "And  what  new 
moral  hast  thou  been  conning  in  our  Forest  of  Ardennes?  " 

"Oh,  I  am  glad  to  see  you;  I  wished  to  consult  you,  Cleve- 
land. But  first,  Lady  Florence,  to  convince  you  and  our  host 
that  my  rambles  have  not  been  wholly  fruitless,  and  that  I 
could  not  walk  from  Dan  to  Beersheba  and  find  all  barren, 
accept  my  offering, —  a  wild  rose  that  I  discovered  in  the 
thickest  part  of  the  wood,  it  is  not  a  civilized  rose.  Now, 
Cleveland,  a  word  with  you." 

"And  now,  Mr.  Maltravers,  I  am  de  trop,^^  said  Lady 
Florence. 

"Pardon  me,  I  have  no  secrets  from  you  in  this  matter, — 
or  rather  these  matters ;  for  there  are  two  to  be  discussed.  In 
the  first  place,  Lady  Florence,  that  poor  Cesarini:  you  know 
and  like  him  —      Nay,  no  blushes." 

"Did  I  blush?  Then  it  was  in  recollection  of  an  old  re- 
proach of  yours." 

"At  its  justice?  Well,  no  matter.  He  is  one  for  whom  I 
always  felt  a  lively  interest.  His  very  morbidity  of  tempera- 
ment only  increases  my  anxiety  for  his  future  fate.  I  have 
received  a  letter  from  De  Montaigne,  his  brother-in-law,  who 
seems  seriously  uneasy  about  Castruccio.  He  wishes  him  to 
leave  England  at  once,  as  the  sole  means  of  restoring  his 
broken  fortunes.  De  Montaigne  has  the  opportunity  of  pro- 
curing him  a  diplomatic  situation  which  may  not  again  occur, 
and —  But  you  know  the  man:  what  shall  we  do?  I  am 
sure  he  will  not  listen  to  me ;  he  looks  on  me  as  an  interested 
rival  for  fame." 

"Do  you  think  I  have  any  subtler  eloquence?  "  said  Cleve- 
land. "  No,  I  am  an  author  too.  Come,  I  think  your  lady- 
ship must  be  the  arch-negotiator." 

"He  has  genius,  he  has  merit,"  said  Maltravers,  pleadingly; 
"he  wants  nothing  but  time  and  experience  to  wean  him  from 
his  foibles.      Will  you  try  to  save  him.  Lady  Florence?  " 
"Why?    Nay,  I  must  not  be  obdurate;  I  will  see  him  when 


ERNEST  MALTRAVEUS.  321 

I  go  to  town.  It  is  like  you,  Mr.  Maltravers,  to  feel  this  in- 
terest m  one  —  " 

"Who  does  not  like  me,  you  would  say;  but  he  will  some 
day  or  other.  Besides,  I  owe  him  deep  gratitude.  In  his 
weaker  qualities  I  have  seen  many  which  all  literary  men 
might  incur,  without  strict  watch  over  themselves;  and  let 
me  add,  also,  that  his  family  have  great  claims  on  me." 

"  You  believe  in  the  soundness  of  his  heart  and  in  the  in- 
tegrity of  his  honour?  "  said  Cleveland,  inquiringly. 

"Indeed  I  do;  these  are,  these  must  be,  the  redeeming 
qualities  of  poets." 

Maltravers  spoke  warmly;  and  such  at  that  time  was  his 
influence  over  Florence  that  his  words  formed  —  alas,  too 
fatally! — her  estimate  of  Castruccio's  character,  which  had 
at  first  been  high,  but  which  his  own  presumption  had  latterly 
shaken.  She  had  seen  him  three  or  four  times  in  the  interval 
between  the  receipt  of  his  apologetic  letter  and  her  visit  to 
Cleveland,  and  he  had  seemed  to  her  rather  sullen  than  hum- 
bled.    But  she  felt  for  the  vanity  she  herself  had  wounded. 

"  And  now, "  continued  Maltravers,  "  for  my  second  subject 
of  consultation.  But  that  is  political:  will  it  weary  Lady 
Florence?" 

"Oh,  no;  to  politics  I  am  never  indifferent:  they  always 
inspire  me  with  contempt  or  admiration,  according  to  the 
motives  of  those  who  bring  the  science  into  action.  Pray 
say  on." 

"Well,"  said  Cleveland,  "one  confidant  at  a  time.  You 
will  forgive  me,  for  I  see  my  guests  coming  across  the  lawn, 
and  I  may  as  well  make  a  diversion  in  your  favour.  Ernest 
can  consult  vie  at  any  time." 

Cleveland  walked  away;  but  the  intimacy  between  Mal- 
travers and  Florence  was  of  so  frank  a  nature  that  there  was 
nothing  embarrassing  in  the  thought  of  a  tete-a-tete. 

"Lady  Florence,"  said  Ernest,  "there  is  no  one  in  the 
world  with  whom  I  can  confer  so  cheerfully  as  with  you.  I 
am  almost  glad  of  Cleveland's  absence,  for,  with  all  his  amia- 
ble and  fine  qualities,  *  the  world  is  too  much  with'  him.  and 
we  do  not  argue  from  the  same  data.     Pardon  my  prelude; 

21 


322  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

now  to  my  position.     I  have  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  . 

Tliat  statesman,  whom  none  but  those  acquainted  with  the 
chivalrous  beauty  of  his  nature  can  understand  or  appreciate, 
sees  before  him  the  most  brilliant  career  that  ever  opened  in 
this  country  to  a  public  man  not  born  an  aristocrat.  He  has 
asked  me  to  form  one  of  the  new  Administration  that  he  is 
about  to  create;  the  place  offered  to  me  is  above  my  merits, 
nor  suited  to  what  I  have  yet  done,  though  perhaps  it  be  suited 
to  what  I  may  yet  do.  I  make  that  qualification,  for  you 
know, "  added  Ernest,  with  a  proud  smile,  "  that  I  am  sanguine 
and  self-confident." 

"You  accept  the  proposal?  " 

"Nay, —  should  I  not  reject  it?  Our  politics  are  the  same 
only  for  the  moment,  our  ultimate  objects  are  widely  differ- 
ent. To  serve  with  Mr.  ,  I  must  make  an  unequal  com- 
promise,—  abandon  nine  opinions  to  promote  one.  Is  not  this 
a  capitulation  of  that  great  citadel,  one's  own  conscience? 
No  man  will  call  me  inconsistent,  for  in  public  life  to  agree 
with  another  on  a  party  question  is  all  that  is  required;  the 
thousand  questions  not  yet  ripened,  and  l3'ing  dark  and  con- 
cealed in  the  future,  are  not  inquired  into  and  divined;  but  I 
own  I  shall  deem  myself  worse  than  inconsistent.  For  this 
is  my  dilemma:  if  I  use  this  noble  spirit  merely  to  advance 
one  object,  and  then  desert  him  where  he  halts,  I  am  treach- 
erous to  him ;  if  I  halt  with  him,  but  one  of  my  objects  ef- 
fected, I  am  treacherous  to  myself.  Such  are  my  views.  It 
is  with  pain  I  arrive  at  them,  for,  at  first,  my  heart  beat  witli 
a  selfish  ambition." 

"You  are  right,  you  are  right,"  exclaimed  Florence,  with 
glowing  cheeks:  "how  could  I  doubt  you?  I  comprehend  the 
sacrifice  you  make ;  for  a  proud  thing  is  it  to  soar  above  the 
predictions  of  foes  in  that  palpable  road  to  honour  which 
the  world's  hard  eyes  can  see,  and  the  world's  cold  heart  can 
measure;  but  prouder  is  it  to  feel  that  you  have  never  ad- 
vanced one  step  to  the  goal  which  remembrance  would  retract. 
No,  my  friend,  wait  your  time,  confident  that  it  must  come, 
when  conscience  and  ambition  can  go  hand  in  hand,  when  the 
broad  objects  of  a  luminous  and  enlarged  policy  lie  before  you 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  323 

like  a  chart,  and  you  can  calculate  every  step  of  the  way  with- 
out peril  of  being  lost.  Ah,  let  them  still  call  loftiness  of 
purpose  and  whiteness  of  soul  the  dreams  of  a  theorist, — 
even  if  they  be  so,  the  Ideal  in  this  case  is  better  than  the 
Practical.  Meanwhile  your  position  is  not  one  to  forfeit 
lightly.  Before  you  is  that  throne  in  literature  which  it  re- 
quires no  doubtful  step  to  win,  if  you  have,  as  I  believe,  the 
mental  power  to  attain  it, —  an  ambition  that  may  indeed  be 
relinquished,  if  a  more  troubled  career  can  better  achieve 
those  public  purposes  at  which  both  letters  and  policy  should 
aim,  but  which  is  not  to  be  surrendered  for  the  rewards  of  a 
placeman,  or  the  advancement  of  a  courtier." 

It  was  while  uttering  these  noble  and  inspiring  sentiments 
that  Florence  Lascelles  suddenly  acquired  in  Ernest's  eyes  a 
loveliness  with  which  they  had  not  before  invested  her. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  as  with  a  sudden  impulse  he  lifted  her  hand 
to  his  lips,  "blessed  be  the  hour  in  which  you  gave  me  your 
friendship!  These  are  the  thoughts  I  have  longed  to  hear 
from  living  lips  when  I  have  been  tempted  to  believe  patriot- 
ism a  delusion,  and  virtue  but  a  name." 

Lady  Florence  heard,  and  her  whole  form  seemed  changed ; 
she  was  no  longer  the  majestic  sibyl,  but  the  attached,  timo- 
rous, delighted  woman. 

It  so  happened  that  in  her  confusion  she  dropped  from  her 
hand  the  flower  Maltravers  had  given  her;  and  involuntarily 
glad  of  a  pretext  to  conceal  her  countenance,  she  stooped  to 
take  it  from  the  ground.  In  so  doing,  a  letter  fell  from  her 
bosom ;  and  Maltravers,  as  he  bent  forwards  to  forestall  her 
own  movement,  saw  that  the  direction  was  to  himself,  and  in 
the  handwriting  of  his  unknown  correspondent.  He  seized 
the  letter  and  gazed  in  flattered  and  entranced  astonishment, 
first  on  the  writing,  next  on  the  detected  writer.  Florence 
grew  deadly  pale,  and  covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  burst 
into  tears. 

"Oh,  fool  that  I  was,"  cried  Ernest,  in  the  passion  of  the 
moment,  "  not  to  know,  not  to  have  felt,  that  there  were  not 
two  Florences  in  the  world!  But  if  the  thought  had  crossed 
me,  I  would  not  have  dared  to  harbour  it." 


324  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

"Go,  go,"  sobbed  Florence;  "leave  me,  in  mercy  leave 
me!" 

"Not  till  you  bid  me  rise,"  said  Ernest,  in  emotion  scarcely 
less  deep  tban  hers,  as  lie  sank  on  his  knee  at  her  feet. 

Need  I  go  on?  When  they  left  that  spot,  a  soft  confes- 
sion had  been  made,  deep  vows  interchanged,  and  Ernest 
Maltravers  was  the  accepted  suitor  of  Florence  Lascelles. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  HUNDRED  fathers  would  in  my  situation  tell  you  that  as  you  are  of  noble 
extraction,  you  should  marry  a  nobleman.  But  I  do  not  say  so.  I  will  not 
sacrifice  my  child  to  any  prejudice.  —  Kotzebue  :  Lover's  Vows. 

Take  heed,  my  lord ;  the  welfare  of  us  aU 
Hangs  on  the  cutting  short  that  fraudful  man. 

Shakspeare  :  Henry  VI. 

Oh,  how  this  spring  of  love  resembleth  , 

Th'  uncertain  glory  of  an  April  day. 
Which  now  shows  all  the  beauty  of  the  sun, 

And  by  and  by  a  cloud  takes  all  away  ! 

Shakspeare  :  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 

When  Maltravers  was  once  more  in  his  solitary  apartment, 
he  felt  as  in  a  dream.  He  had  obeyed  an  impulse, —  irresis- 
tible, perhaps,  but  one  with  which  the  conscience  of  his  heart 
was  not  satisfied.  A  voice  whispered  to  him:  "Thou  hast 
deceived  her  and  thyself;  thou  dost  not  love  her!  "  In  vain 
he  recalled  her  beauty,  her  grace,  her  genius,  her  singular 
and  enthusiastic  passion  for  himself;  the  voice  still  replied: 
"Thou  dost  not  love.  Bid  farewell  forever  to  thy  fond 
dreams  of  a  life  more  blessed  than  that  of  mortals.  From 
the  stormy  sea  of  the  future  are  blotted  out  eternally  for  thee 
Calypso  and  her  Golden  Isle.  Thou  canst  no  more  paint  on 
the  dim  canvas  of  thy  desires  the  form  of  her  with  whom  thou 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  325 

couldst  dwell  forever.  Thou  hast  been  unfaithful  to  thine 
own  ideal ;  thou  hast  given  thyself  forever  and  forever  to  an- 
other; thou  hast  renounced  hope;  thou  must  live  as  in  a 
prison,  with  a  being  with  whom  thou  hast  not  the  harmony 
of  love." 

"  No  matter, "  said  Maltravers,  almost  alarmed,  and  starting 
from  these  thoughts,  "I  am  betrothed  to  one  who  loves  me; 
it  is  folly  and  dishonour  to  repent  and  to  repine.  I  have  gone 
through  the  best  years  of  youth  without  finding  the  Egeria 
with  whom  the  cavern  would  be  sweeter  than  a  throne.  Why 
live  to  the  grave  a  vain  and  visionary  nympholept?  Out  of 
the  real  world  could  I  have  made  a  nobler  choice?" 

While  Maltravers  thus  communed  with  himself.  Lady  Flor- 
ence passed  into  her  father's  dressing-room,  and  there  awaited 
his  return  from  London.  She  knew  his  worldly  views;  she 
knew  also  the  pride  of  her  affianced,  and  she  felt  that  she 
alone  could  mediate  between  the  two. 

Lord  Saxingham  at  last  returned, —  busy,  bustling,  impor- 
tant, and  good  humoured  as  usual.  "Well,  Flory,  well? 
Glad  to  see  you!  Quite  blooming,  I  declare, —  never  saw  you 
with  such  a  colour.  Monstrous  like  me,  certainly.  We  al- 
ways had  fine  complexions  and  fine  eyes  in  our  family.  But 
I'm  rather  late, —  first  bell  rung;  we  ci-devant  jeunes  hommes 
are  rather  long  dressing,  and  you  are  not  dressed  yet,  I  see." 

"  My  dearest  Father,  I  wished  to  speak  with  you  on  a  mat- 
ter of  much  importance." 

"Do  you?    What,  immediately?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  what  is  it?     Your  Slingsby  property,  I  suppose." 

"No,  my  dear  Father;  pray  sit  down  and  hear  me 
patiently." 

Lord  Saxingham  began  to  be  both  alarmed  and  curious ;  he 
seated  himself  in  silence,  and  looked  anxiously  in  the  face  of 
his  daughter. 

"  You  have  always  been  very  indulgent  to  me, "  commenced 
Florence,  with  a  half  smile,  "and  I  have  had  my  own  way 
more  than  most  young  ladies.  Believe  me,  my  dear  Father, 
I  am  most  grateful,  not  only  for  your  affection,  but  your  es- 


326  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

teem.  I  have  been  a  strange,  wild  girl,  but  I  am  now  about 
to  reform;  and  as  the  first  step,  I  ask  your  consent  to  give 
myself  a  preceptor  and  a  guide  —  " 

"A  what?  "  cried  Lord  Saxingham. 

"  In  other  words,  I  am  about  to  —  to  —  Well,  the  truth 
must  out, —  to  marry." 

"Has  the  Duke  of been  here  to-day?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of.  But  it  is  no  duke  to  whom  I  have 
promised  my  hand, —  it  is  a  nobler  and  rarer  dignity  that  has 
caught  my  ambition.     Mr.  Maltravers  has  —  " 

"Mr.  Maltravers!  Mr.  Devil!  The  girl's  mad!  Don't 
talk  to  me,  child;  I  won't  consent  to  any  such  nonsense.  A 
country  gentleman,  very  respectable,  very  clever,  and  all  that; 
but  it's  no  use  talking, —  my  mind  's  made  up.  With  your 
fortune,  too !  " 

"  My  dear  Father,  I  will  not  marry  without  your  consent, 
though  my  fortune  is  settled  on  me,  and  I  am  of  age." 

"There's  a  good  child;  and  now  let  me  dress, —  we  shall 
be  late." 

"No,  not  yet,"  said  Lady  Florence,  throwing  her  arm  care- 
lessly round  her  father's  neck.  "I  shall  marry  Mr.  Mal- 
travers, but  it  will  be  with  your  full  approval.  Just  con- 
sider, if  I  married  the  Duke  of ,  he  would  expect  all  my 

fortune,  such  as  it  is.  Ten  thousand  a  year  is  at  my  dis- 
posal; if  I  marry  Mr.  Maltravers,  it  will  be  settled  on  you. 
I  always  meant  it, —  it  is  a  poor  return  for  your  kindness, 
your  indulgence ;  but  it  will  show  that  your  own  Flory  is  not 
ungrateful." 

"I  won't  hear." 

"Stop!  listen  to  reason.  You  are  not  rich,  you  are  entitled 
but  to  a  small  pension  if  you  ever  resign  office,  and  your  offi- 
cial salary,  I  have  often  heard  you  say,  does  not  prevent  you 
from  being  embarrassed.  To  whom  should  a  daughter  give 
from  her  superfluities  but  to  a  parent;  from  whom  should  a 
parent  receive,  but  from  a  child,  who  can  never  repay  his 
love?  Ah,  this  is  nothing;  but  you  —  you  who  have  never 
crossed  her  lightest  whim  —  do  not  you  destroy  all  the  hopes 
of  happiness  your  Florence  can  ever  form." 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  327 

Florence  wept,  and  Lord  Saxingham,  who  was  greatly 
moved,  let  fall  a  few  tears  also.  Perhaps  it  is  too  much  to 
say  that  the  pecuniary  part  of  the  proffered  arrangement  en- 
tirely won  him  over;  but  still  the  way  it  was  introduced 
softened  his  heart.  He  possibly  thought  that  it  was  better  to 
have  a  good  and  grateful  daughter  in  a  country  gentleman's 
wife  than  a  sullen  and  thankless  one  in  a  duchess.  However 
that  may  be,  certain  it  is  that  before  Lord  Saxingham  began 
his  toilet  he  promised  to  make  no  obstacle  to  the  marriage, 
and  all  he  asked  in  return  was  that  at  least  three  months  (but 
that,  indeed,  the  lawyers  would  require)  should  elapse  before 
it  took  place;  and  on  this  understanding  Florence  left  him, 
radiant  and  joyous  as  Flora  herself  when  the  sun  of  spring 
makes  the  world  a  garden.  Never  had  she  thought  so  little 
of  her  beauty,  and  never  had  it  seemed  so  glorious,  as  that 
happy  evening.  But  Maltravers  was  pale  and  thoughtful,  and 
Florence  in  vain  sought  his  eyes  during  the  dinner,  which 
seemed  to  her  insufferably  long.  Afterwards,  however,  they 
met  and  conversed  apart  the  rest  of  the  evening,  and  the 
beauty  of  Florence  began  to  produce  upon  Ernest's  heart  its 
natural  effect;  and  that  evening  —  ah,  how  Florence  treas- 
ured the  remembrance  of  every  hour,  every  minute  of  its 
annals ! 

It  would  have  been  amusing  to  witness  the  short  conversa- 
tion between  Lord  Saxingham  and  Maltravers  when  the  latter 
sought  the  earl  at  night  in  his  lordship's  room.  To  Lord 
Saxingham's  surprise,  not  a  word  did  Maltravers  utter  of 
his  own  subordinate  pretensions  to  Lady  Florence's  hand. 
Coldly,  dryly,  and  almost  haughtily,  did  he  make  the  formal 
proposals,  "as  if  [as  Lord  Saxingham  afterwards  said  to 
Ferrers]  the  man  were  doing  me  the  highest  possible  honour 
in  taking  my  daughter,  the  beauty  of  London,  with  fifty  thou- 
sand a  year,  oif  my  hands."  But  this  was  quite  Maltravers! 
Tf  he  had  been  proposing  to  the  daughter  of  a  country  curate 
without  a  sixpence,  he  would  have  been  the  humblest  of  the 
humble.  The  earl  was  embarrassed  and  discomposed;  he  was 
almost  awed  by  the  Siddons-like  countenance  and  Coriolanus- 
like  air  of  his  future  son-in-law;   he  even  hinted  nothing  of 


328  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

tlie  compromise  as  to  time  which  he  had  made  with  his 
daughter;  he  thought  it  better  to  leave  it  to  Lady  Florence 
to  arrange  that  matter.  They  shook  hands  frigidly  and 
parted.  Maltravers  went  next  into  Cleveland's  room,  and 
communicated  all  to  the  delighted  old  man,  whose  congratu- 
lations were  so  fervid  that  Maltravers  felt  it  would  be  a  sin 
not  to  fancy  himself  the  happiest  man  in  the  world.  That 
night  he  wrote  his  refusal  of  the  appointment  offered  him. 

The  next  day  Lord  Saxingham  went  to  his  office  in  Downing 
Street  as  usual,  and  Lady  Florence  and  Ernest  found  an  op- 
portunity to  ramble  through  the  grounds  alone*. 

There  it  was  that  occurred  those  confessions,  sweet  alike  to 
utter  and  to  hear.  Then  did  Florence  speak  of  her  early 
years,  of  her  self-formed  and  solitary  mind,  of  her  youthful 
dreams  and  reveries.  Nothing  around  her  to  excite  interest 
or  admiration,  or  the  more  romantic,  the  higher,  or  the  softer 
qualities  of  her  nature,  she  turned  to  contemplation  and  to 
books.  It  is  the  combination  of  the  faculties  with  the  iaffec- 
tions,  exiled  from  action,  and  finding  no  worldly  vent,  which 
produces  Poetry,  the  child  of  passion  and  of  thought.  Hence, 
before  the  real  cares  of  existence  claim  them,  the  young  who 
are  abler  yet  lonelier  than  their  fellows,  are  nearly  always 
poets;  and  Florence  was  a  poetess.  In  minds  like  this,  the 
first  book  that  seems  to  embody  and  represent  their  own  most 
cherished  and  beloved  trains  of  sentiment  and  ideas,  ever 
creates  a  reverential  and  deep  enthusiasm.  The  lonely  and 
proud  and  melancholy  soul  of  Maltravers,  which  made  itself 
visible  in  all  his  creations,  became  to  Florence  like  a  revealer 
of  the  secrets  of  her  own  nature.  She  conceived  an  intense 
and  mysterious  interest  in  the  man  whose  mind  exercised  so 
pervading  a  power  over  her  own.  She  made  herself  ac- 
quainted with  his  pursuits,  his  career;  she  fancied  she  found 
a  symmetry  and  harmony  between  the  actual  being  and  the 
breathing  genius;  she  imagined  she  understood  what  seemed 
dark  and  obscure  to  others.  He  whom  she  had  never  seen, 
grew  to  her  a  never-absent  friend.  His  ambition,  his  repu- 
tation, were  to  her  like  a  possession  of  her  own.  So  at 
length,  in  the  folly  of  her  young  romance,  she  wrote  to  him; 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  329 

and  dreaming  of  no  discovery,  anticipating  no  result,  the 
habit,  once  indulged,  became  to  her  that  luxury  which  writ- 
ing for  the  eye  of  the  world  is  to  an  author  oppressed  with 
the  burden  of  his  own  thoughts.  At  length  she  saw  him,  and 
he  did  not  destroy  her  illusion.  She  might  have  recovered 
from  the  spell  if  she  had  found  him  ready  at  once  to  worship 
at  her  shrine.  The  mixture  of  reserve  and  frankness  —  frank- 
ness of  language,  reserve  of  manner  —  which  belonged  to 
Maltravers,  piqued  her.  Her  vanity  became  the  auxiliary  to 
her  imagination.  At  length  they  met  at  Cleveland's  house; 
their  intercourse  became  more  unrestrained,  their  friendship 
was  established,  and  she  discovered  that  she  had  wilfully 
implicated  her  happiness  in  indulging  her  dreams.  Yet  even 
then  she  believed  that  Maltravers  loved  her,  despite  his 
silence  upon  the  subject  of  love.  His  manner,  his  words,  be- 
spoke his  interest  in  her,  and  his  voice  was  ever  soft  when 
he  spoke  to  women;  for  he  had  much  of  the  old  chivalric 
respect  and  tenderness  for  the  sex.  What  was  general  it  was 
natural  that  she  should  apply  individually, —  she  who  had 
walked  the  world  but  to  fascinate  and  to  conquer.  It  was 
probable  that  her  great  wealth  and  social  position  imposed 
a  check  on  the  delicate  pride  of  Maltravers, —  she  hoped  so, 
she  believed  it;  yet  she  felt  her  danger,  and  her  own  pride 
at  last  took  alarm.  In  such  a  moment  she  had  resumed  the 
character  of  the  unknown  correspondent;  she  had  written  to 
Maltravers, —  addressed  her  letter  to  his  own  house,  and 
meant  the  next  day  to  have  gone  to  London  and  posted  it 
there.  In  this  letter  she  had  spoken  of  his  visit  to  Cleve- 
land, of  his  position  with  herself.  She  exhorted  him,  if  he 
loved  her,  to  confess,  and  if  not,  to  fly.  She  had  written 
artfully  and  eloquently;  she  was  desirous  of  expediting  her 
own  fate;  and  then,  with  that  letter  in  her  bosom,  she  had 
met  Maltravers,  and  the  reader  has  learned  the  rest.  Some- 
thing of  all  this  the  blushing  and  happy  Florence  now  re- 
vealed; and  when  she  ended  with  uttering  the  woman's  soft 
fear  that  she  had  been  too  bold,  is  it  wonderful  that  Mal- 
travers, clasping  her  to  his  bosom,  felt  the  gratitude  and  the 
delighted  vanity  which  seemed  even  to  himself  like  love? 


330  ERXEST   MALTRAVERS. 

And   into   love  those  feelings   rapidly  and  deliciously  will 
merge,  if  fate  and  accident  permit! 

And  now  they  were  by  the  side  of  the  water,  and  the  sun 
was  gently  setting,  as  on  the  eve  before.  It  was  about  the 
same  hour,  —  the  fairest  of  an  autumn  day;  none  were  near, — 
the  slope  of  the  hill  hid  the  house  from  their  view.  Had  they 
been  in  the  desert  they  could  not  have  been  more  alone.  It 
was  not  silence  that  breathed  around  them  as  they  sat  on  that 
bench,  with  the  broad  beech  spreading  over  them  its  trem- 
bling canopy  of  leaves,  but  those  murmurs  of  living  nature 
which  are  sweeter  than  silence  itself, —  the  songs  of  birds; 
the  tinkling  bell  of  the  sheep  on  the  opposite  bank;  the  wind 
sighing  through  the  trees;  and  the  gentle  heaving  of  the  glit- 
tering waves  that  washed  the  odorous  reed  and  water-lily  at 
their  feet.  They  had  both  been  for  some  moments  silent,  and 
Florence  now  broke  the  pause,  but  in  tones  more  low  than 
usual. 

"Ah,"  said  she,  turning  towards  him,  "these  hours  are 
happier  than  we  can  find  in  that  crowded  world  whither  your 
destiny  must  call  us.  For  me,  ambition  seems  forever  at  an 
end.  I  have  found  all ;  I  am  no  longer  haunted  with  the  de- 
sire of  gaining  a  vague  something, —  a  shadowy  empire  that 
we  call  fame  or  power.  The  sole  thought  that  disturbs  the 
calm  current  of  my  soul  is  the  fear  to  lose  a  particle  of  the 
rich  possession  I  have  gained." 

"  May  your  fears  ever  be  as  idle !  " 

"And  you  really  love  me.!  I  repeat  to  myself  ever  and 
ever  that  one  phrase.  I  could  once  have  borne  to  lose  you; 
now  it  would  be  mj^  death.  I  despaired  of  ever  being  loved 
for  myself:  my  wealth  was  a  fatal  dower;  I  suspected  avarice 
in  every  vow,  and  saw  the  base  world  lurk  at  the  bottom  of 
every  heart  that  offered  itself  at  my  shrine.  But  you,  Ernest, 
you,  I  feel,  never  could  weigh  gold  in  the  balance,  and  you, 
if  you  love,  love  me  for  myself." 

"And  I  shall  love  thee  more  with  every  hour." 

"I  know  not  that;  I  dread  that  you  will  love  me  less  when 
you  know  me  more.  I  fear  I  shall  seem  to  you  exacting,  —  I 
am  jealous  already.     I  was  jealous  even  of  Lady  T when 


h 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  331 

I  saw  you  by  her  side  this  morning.  I  would  have  your  every 
look,  monopolize  your  every  word." 

This  confession  did  not  please  Maltravers  as  it  might  have 
done  if  he  had  been  more  deeply  in  love.  Jealousy  in  a 
woman  of  so  vehement  and  imperious  a  nature  was  indeed  a 
passion  to  be  dreaded. 

"Do  not  say  so,  dear  Florence,"  said  he,  with  a  very  grave 
■smile ;  "  for  love  should  have  implicit  confidence  as  its  bond 
and  nature, —  and  jealousy  is  doubt,  and  doubt  is  the  death  of 
love." 

A  shade  passed  over  Florence's  too  expressive  face,  and 
she  sighed  heavily. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Maltravers,  raising  his  eyes,  saw 
the  form  of  Lumley  Ferrers  approaching  towards  them  from 
the  opposite  end  of  the  terrace.  At  the  same  instant  a  dark 
cloud  crept  over  the  sky,  the  waters  seemed  overcast,  and  the 
breeze  fell;  a  chill  and  strange  presentiment  of  evil  shot 
across  Ernest's  heart,  and  like  many  imaginative  persons,  he 
was  unconsciously  superstitious  as  to  presentiments. 

"We  are  no  longer  alone,"  said  he,  rising;  "your  cousin 
has  doubtless  learned  our  engagement,  and  comes  to  congratu- 
late your  suitor. 

"Tell  me,"  he  continued  musingly,  as  they  walked  on  to 
meet  Ferrers,  "are  you  very  partial  to  Lumley?  What  think 
you  of  his  character?  It  is  one  that  perplexes  me :  sometimes 
I  think  it  has  changed  since  we  parted  in  Italy;  sometimes  I 
think  it  has  not  changed,  but  ripened." 

"Lumley  I  have  known  from  a  child,"  replied  Florence, 
"and  see  much  to  admire  and  like  in  him.  I  admire  his 
boldness  and  candour,  his  scorn  of  the  world's  littleness  and 
falsehood;  I  like  his  good-nature,  his  gayety,  and  fancy  his 
heart  better  than  it  may  seem  to  the  superficial  observer." 

"Yet  he  appears  to  me  selfish  and  unprincipled." 

"It  is  from  a  fine  contempt  for  the  vices  and  follies  of  men 
that  he  has  contracted  the  habit  of  consulting  his  own  reso- 
lute will;  and  believing  everything  done  in  this  noisy  stage 
of  action  a  cheat,  he  has  accommodated  his  ambition  to  the 
fashion.     Though  without  what  is  termed  *  prenius, '  he  will 


332  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

obtain  a  distinction  and  power  that  few  men  of  genius  ar- 
rive at." 

"Because  genius  is  essentially  honest,"  said  Maltravers. 
"However,  you  teach  me  to  look  on  him  more  indulgently. 
I  suspect  the  real  frankness  of  men  whom  I  know  to  be  hypo- 
crites in  public  life;  but  perhaps  I  judge  by  too  harsh  a 
standard." 

"Third  persons,"  said  Ferrers,  as  he  now  joined  them,  "are 
seldom  unwelcome  in  the  country ;  and  I  flatter  myself  that  I 
am  the  exact  thing  wanting  to  complete  the  charm  of  this 
beautiful  landscape." 

"You  are  ever  modest,  my  cousin." 

"It  is  my  weak  side,  I  know;  but  I  shall  improve  with 
years  and  wisdom.  What  say  you,  Maltravers?"  and  Ferrers 
passed  his  arm  affectionately  through  Ernest's.  "By  the  by, 
I  anl  too  familiar, —  I  am  sunk  in  the  world;  I  am  a  thing  to 
be  sneered  at  by  you  old-family  people.  I  am  next  heir 
to  a  brand-new  Brummagem  peerage.  Gad,  I  feel  brassy 
already ! " 

"What,  is  Mr.  Templeton—  ?" 

"Mr.  Templeton  is  no  more, —  he  is  defunct,  extinguished; 
out  of  the  ashes  rises  the  phoenix  Lord  Vargrave.  We  had 
thought  of  a  more  sounding  title:  De  Courval  has  a  nobler 
sound ;  but  my  good  uncle  has  nothing  of  the  Norman  about 
him,  so  we  dropped  the  De  as  ridiculous.  Vargrave  is  eupho- 
nious and  appropriate.  My  uncle  has  a  manor  of  that  name, — 
Baron  Vargrave  of  Vargrave." 

"  Ah,  I  congratulate  you !  " 

"Thank  you.  Lady  Vargrave  may  destroy  all  my  hopes 
yet.  But  nothing  venture,  nothing  have.  My  uncle  will  be 
gazetted  to-day.  Poor  man,  he  will  be  delighted;  and  as  he 
certainly  owes  it  much  to  me,  he  will,  I  suppose,  be  very 
grateful, —  or  hate  me  ever  afterwards;  that  is  a  toss  up.  A 
benefit  conferred  is  a  complete  hazard  between  the  thumb  of 
pride  and  the  forefinger  of  affection.  Heads  gratitude,  tails 
hatred!  There,  that's  a  simile  in  the  fashion  of  the  old 
writers;   'Well  of  English  undefiled!  '  humph!" 

"  So  that  beautiful   child  is  Mrs.   Templeton's,   or   rather 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  333 

Lady  Vargrave's,  daughter  by  a  former  marriage?"  said  Mal- 
travers,  abstractedly. 

"  Yes,  it  is  astonishing  how  fond  he  is  of  her.  Pretty  little 
creature, —  confoundedly  artful,  though.  By  the  way,  Mal- 
travers,  we  had  an  unexpectedly  stormy  night  the  last  of  the 
session, —  strong  division;  ministers  hard  pressed.  I  made 
quite  a  good  speech  for  them.  I  suppose,  however,  there  will 
be  some  change, —  the  moderates  will  be  taken  in.  Perhaps 
by  next  session  I  may  congratulate  you," 

Ferrers  looked  hard  at  Maltravers  while  he  spoke;  but 
Ernest  replied  coldly  and  evasively,  and  they  were  now 
joined  by  a  party  of  idlers  lounging  along  the  lawn  in  ex- 
pectation of  the  first  dinner-bell.  Cleveland  was  in  high  con- 
sultation about  the  proper  spot  for  a  new  fountain;  and  he 
summoned  Maltravers  to  give  his  opinion  whether  it  should 
spring  from  the  centre  of  a  flower-bed,  or  beneath  the  droop- 
ing shade  of  a  large  willow.  While  this  interesting  discus- 
sion was  going  on,  Ferrers  drew  aside  his  cousin,  and  pressing 
her  hand  affectionately,  said,  in  a  soft  and  tender  voice, — 

"  My  dear  Florence  —  for  in  such  a  time  permit  me  to  be 
familiar  —  I  understand  from  Lord  Saxingham,  whom  I  met 
in  London,  that  you  are  engaged  to  Maltravers.  Busy  as  I 
was,  I  could  not  rest  without  coming  hither  to  offer  my  best 
and  most  earnest  wish  for  your  happiness.  I  may  seem  a 
careless,  I  am  considered  a  selfish  person;  but  my  heart  is 
warm  to  those  who  really  interest  it.  And  never  did  brother 
offer  up  for  the  welfare  of  a  beloved  sister  prayers  more 
anxious  and  fond  than  those  that  poor  Lumley  Ferrers  breathes 
for  Florence  Lascelles." 

Florence  was  startled  and  melted,  the  whole  tone  and  man- 
ner of  Lumley  were  so  different  from  those  he  usually  as- 
sumed. She  warmly  returned  the  pressure  of  his  hand,  and 
thanked  him  briefly,  but  with  emotion. 

"  No  one  is  great  and  good  enough  for  you,  Florence, "  con- 
tinued Ferrers, —  "no  one.  But  I  admire  your  disinterested 
and  generous  choice.  Maltravers  and  I  have  not  been  friends 
lately;  but  I  respect  him,  as  all  must.  He  has  noble  quali- 
ties and  he  has  great  ambition.     In  addition  to  the  deep  and 


334  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

ardent  love  that  you  cannot  fail  to  inspire,  he  will  owe  you 
eternal  gratitude.  In  this  aristocratic  country,  your  hand 
secures  to  him  the  most  brilliant  fortunes,  the  most  proud 
career.  His  talents  will  now  be  measured  by  a  very  different 
standard.  His  merits  will  not  pass  through  any  subordinate 
grades,  but  leap  at  once  into  the  highest  posts;  and  as  he  is 
even  more  proud  than  ambitious,  how  he  must  bless  one 
who  raises  him,  without  effort,  into  positions  of  eminent 
command!  " 

"Oh,  he  does  not  think  of  such  worldly  advantages,— he, 
the  too  pure,  the  too  refined!  "  said  Florence,  with  trembling 
eagerness.  "He  has  no  avarice,  nothing  mercenary  in  his 
nature." 

"No,  there  you  indeed  do  him  justice, —  there  is  not  a  par- 
ticle of  baseness  in  his  mind;  I  did  not  say  there  was.  The 
very  greatness  of  his  aspirations,  his  indignant  and  scornful 
pride,  lift  him  above  the  thought  of  your  wealth,  your  rank,— 
except  as  means  to  an  end." 

"You  mistake  still,"  said  Florence,  faintly  smiling,  but 
turning  pale. 

"jSTo,"  resumed  Ferrers,  not  appearing  to  hear  her,  and  as 
if  pursuing  his  own  thoughts.  "I  always  predicted  that  Mal- 
travers  would  make  a  distinguished  connection  in  marriage. 
He  would  not  permit  himself  to  love  the  low-born  or  the  poor. 
His  affections  are  in  his  pride  as  much  as  in  his  heart.  He 
is  a  great  creature ;  you  have  judged  wisely,  and  may  Heaven 
bless  you! " 

With  these  words  Ferrers  left  her,  and  Florence,  when  she 
descended  to  dinner,  wore  a  moody  and  clouded  brow.  Fer- 
rers stayed  three  days  at  the  house.  He  was  peculiarly  cor- 
dial to  Maltravers,  and  spoke  little  to  Florence.  But  that 
little  never  failed  to  leave  upon  her  mind  a  jealous  and  anx- 
ious irritability,  to  which  she  yielded  with  morbid  facility. 
In  order  perfectly  to  understand  Florence  Lascelles,  it  must  be 
remembered  that,  with  all  her  dazzling  qualities,  she  was  not 
what  is  called  a  lovable  person.  A  certain  hardness  in  her 
disposition,  even  as  a  child,  had  prevented  her  winding  into 
the  hearts  of  those  around  her.     Deprived  of  her  mother's 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  335 

care,  having  little  or  no  intercourse  with  children  of  her  own 
age,  brought  up  with  a  starched  governess  or  female  relations, 
poor  and  proud,  she  never  had  contracted  the  softness  of  man- 
ner which  the  reciprocation  of  household  affections  usually 
produces.  "With  a  haughty  consciousness  of  her  powers,  her 
birth,  her  position,  advantages  always  dinned  into  her  ear, 
she  grew  up  solitary,  unsocial,  and  imperious.  Her  father 
was  rather  proud  than  fond  of  her;  her  servants  did  not  love 
her, —  she  had  too  little  consideration  for  others,  too  little 
blandness  and  suavity,  to  be  loved  by  inferiors;  she  was  too 
learned  and  too  stern  to  find  pleasure  in  the  conversation  and 
society  of  young  ladies  of  her  own  age:  she  had  no  friends. 
Now,  having  really  strong  affections,  she  felt  all  this,  but 
rather  with  resentment  than  grief.  She  longed  to  be  loved, 
but  did  not  seek  to  be  so;  she  felt  as  if  it  was  her  fate  not  to 
be  loved, —  she  blamed  Fate,  not  herself. 

When,  with  all  the  proud,  pure,  and  generous  candour  of 
her  nature,  she  avowed  to  Ernest  her  love  for  him,  she  natu- 
rally expected  the  most  ardent  and  passionate  return;  noth- 
ing less  could  content  her.  But  the  habit  and  experience  of 
all  the  past  made  her  eternally  suspicious  that  she  was  not 
loved;  it  was  wormwood  and  poison  to  her  to  fancy  that  Mal- 
travers  had  ever  considered  her  advantages  of  fortune,  except 
as  a  bar  to  his  pretensions  and  a  check  on  his  passion.  It  was 
the  same  thing  to  her  whether  it  was  the  pettiest  avarice  or 
the  loftiest  aspirations  that  actuated  her  lover,  if  he  had  been 
actuated  in  his  heart  by  any  sentiment  hut  love;  and  Ferrers, 
to  whose  eye  her  foibles  were  familiar,  knew  well  how  to 
make  his  praises  of  Ernest  arouse  against  Ernest  all  her  ex- 
acting jealousies  and  irritable  doubts. 

"It  is  strange,"  said  he,  one  evening,  as  he  was  conversing 
with  Florence,  "  how  complete  and  triumphant  a  conquest  you 
have  effected  over  Ernest!  Will  you  believe  it?  He  con- 
ceived a  prejudice  against  you  when  he  first  saw  you, —  he 
even  said  that  you  were  made  to  be  admired,  not  to  be 
loved." 

"Ha!  Did  he  so?  True,  true;  he  has  almost  said  the  same 
thing  to  me." 


336  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

"But  now  how  he  must  love  you!  Surely  he  has  all  the 
signs." 

"And  what  are  the  signs,  most  learned  Lumley?"  said 
Florence,  forcing  a  smile. 

"Why,  in  the  first  place,  you  will  doubtless  observe  that 
he  never  takes  his  eyes  from  you ;  with  whomsoever  he  con- 
verses, whatever  his  occupation,  those  eyes,  restless  and  pin- 
ing, wander  around  for  one  glance  from  you." 

Florence  sighed  and  looked  up:  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room  her  lover  was  conversing  with  Cleveland,  and  his  eyes 
never  wandered  in  search  of  her. 

Ferrers  did  not  seem  to  notice  this  practical  contradiction 
of  his  theory,  but  went  on, — 

"Then  surely  his  whole  character  is  changed, —  that  brow 
has  lost  its  calm  majesty,  that  deep  voice  its  assured  and 
tranquil  tone.  Has  he  not  become  humble  and  embarrassed 
and  fretful,  living  only  on  your  smile,  reproachful  if  you  look 
upon  another,  sorrowful  if  your  lip  be  less  smiling, —  a  thing 
of  doubt  and  dread  and  trembling  agitation;  slave  to  a 
shadow;  no  longer  lord  of  the  creation?  Such  is  love,  —  such 
is  the  love  you  should  inspire,  such  is  the  love  IMaltravers  is 
capable  of;  for  I  have  seen  him  testify  it  to  another.  But," 
added  Lumley,  quickly,  and  as  if  afraid  he  had  said  too  much, 
"  Lord  Saxingham  is  looking  out  for  me  to  make  up  his  whist- 
table.     I  go  to-morrow.     When  shall  you  be  in  town?  " 

"In  the  course  of  the  week,"  said  poor  Florence,  mechani- 
cally ;  and  Lumley  walked  away. 

In  another  moment,  Maltravers,  who  had  been  more  obser- 
vant than  he  seemed,  joined  her  where  she  sat. 

"  Dear  Florence, "  said  he,  tenderly,  "  you  look  pale ;  I  fear 
you  are  not  so  well  this  evening." 

"Xo  affectation  of  an  interest  you  do  not  feel,  pray,"  said 
Florence,  with  a  scornful  lip  but  swimming  eyes. 

"Do  not  feel,  Florence!  " 

"It  is  the  first  time,  at  least,  that  you  have  observed 
whether  I  am  well  or  ill.     But  it  is  no  matter," 

"  My  dear  Florence,  why  this  tone?  How  have  I  offended 
you?    Has  Lumley  said  —  " 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  337 

"Nothing  but  in  your  praise.  Oh,  be  not  afraid;  you  are 
one  of  those  of  whom  all  speak  highly.  But  do  not  let  me 
detain  you  here;  let  us  join  our  host, —  you  have  left  him 
alone." 

Lady  Florence  waited  for  no  reply,  nor  did  Maltravers 
attempt  to  detain  her.  He  looked  pained,  and  when  she 
turned  round  to  catch  a  glance  that  she  hoped  would  be  re- 
proachful, he  was  gone.  Lady  Florence  became  nervous  and 
uneasy,  talked  she  knew  not  what,  and  laughed  hysterically; 
she  however  deceived  Cleveland  into  the  notion  that  she  was 
in  the  best  possible  spirits.  By  and  by  she  rose,  and  passed 
through  the  suite  of  rooms;  her  heart  was  with  Maltravers, — 
still,  he  was  not  visible.  At  length  she  entered  the  conser- 
vatory, and  there  she  observed  him,  through  the  open  case- 
ments, walking  slowl3^  with  folded  arms,  upon  the  moonlit 
lawn.  There  was  a  short  struggle  in  her  breast  between 
woman's  pride  and  woman's  love;  the  last  conquered,  and 
she  joined  him. 

"Forgive  me,  Ernest,"  she  said,  extending  her  hand;  "I 
was  to  blame." 

Ernest  kissed  the  fair  hand,  and  answered  touchingly, — 

"Florence,  you  have  the  power  to  wound  me, —  be  for- 
bearing in  its  exercise.  Heaven  knows  that  I  would  not, 
from  the  vain  desire  of  showing  command  over  you,  inflict 
upon  you  a  single  pang.  Ah,  do  not  fancy  that  in  lovers' 
quarrels  there  is  any  sweetness  that  compensates  the  sting." 

"I  told  you  I  was  too  exacting,  Ernest.  I  told  you  you 
would  not  love  me  so  well  when  you  knew  me  better." 

"  And  were  a  false  prophetess.  Florence,  every  day,  every 
hour  I  love  you  more, —  better  than  I  once  thought  I  could." 

"Then,"  cried  this  wayward  girl,  anxious  to  pain  herself, 
"then  once  you  did  not  love  me?  " 

"Florence,  I  will  be  candid, —  I  did  not.  You  are  now 
rapidly  obtaining  an  empire  over  me  greater  than  my  reason 
should  allow.  But  beware ;  if  my  love  be  really  a  possession 
you  desire,  beware  how  you  arm  my  reason  against  you. 
Florence,  I  am  a  proud  man.  My  very  consciousness  of  the 
more  splendid  alliances  you  could  form  renders  me  less  hum- 

22 


338  ,  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

ble  a  lover  than  you  might  find  in  others.  I  were  not  worthy 
of  you  if  I  were  not  tenacious  of  my  self-respect." 

"  Ah !  "  said  Florence,  to  whose  heart  these  words  went 
home,  "forgive  me  but  this  once:  I  shall  not  forgive  myself 
so  soon." 

And  Ernest  drew  her  to  his  heart,  and  felt  that,  with  all 
her  faults,  a  woman  whom  he  feared  he  could  not  render  as 
hapjoy  as  her  sacrifices  to  him  deserved  was  becoming  very 
dear  to  him.  In  his  heart  he  knew  that  she  was  not  formed 
to  render  him  happy;  but  that  was  not  his  thought,  his  fear. 
Her  love  had  rooted  out  all  thought  of  self  from  that  generous 
breast;  his  only  anxiety  was  to  requite  her. 

They  walked  along  the  sward  silent,  thoughtful;  and  Flor- 
ence melancholy,  yet  blessed. 

"That  serene  heaven,  those  lovely  stars,"  said  Maltravers 
at  last,  "do  they  not  preach  to  us  the  Philosophy  of  Peace? 
Do  they  not  tell  us  how  much  of  calm  belongs  to  the  dignity 
of  man  and  the  sublime  essence  of  the  soul?  Petty  distrac- 
tions and  self-wrought  cares  are  not  congenial  to  our  real 
nature ;  their  very  disturbance  is  a  proof  that  they  are  at  war 
with  our  natures.  Ah,  sweet  Florence,  let  us  learn  from  yon 
skies,  over  which,  in  the  faith  of  the  poets  of  old,  brooded 
the  wings  of  primeval  and  serenest  Love,  Avhat  earthly  love 
shoiild  be,  —  a  thing  pure  as  light,  and  peaceful  as  immortal- 
ity, watching  over  the  stormy  world  that  it  shall  survive,  and 
high  above  the  clouds  and  vapours  that  roll  below.  Let  little 
minds  introduce  into  the  holiest  of  affections  all  the  bitter- 
ness and  tumult  of  common  life !  Let  iis  love  as  beings  who 
will  one  day  be  inhabitants  of  the  stars !  " 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  339 


CHAPTER   IV. 

A  SLIPPERY  and  subtle  knave;  a  finder  out  of  occasions,  that  has  an  eye 
can  stamp  and  counterfeit  advantages.  —  Othello. 

Knavery's  plain  face  is  never  seen  till  used.  —  Othello. 

"You  see,  my  dear  Lumley,"  said  Lord  Saxingham,  as  the 
next  day  the  two  kinsmen  were  on  their  way  to  London  in  the 
earl's  chariot, —  "you  see  that  at  the  best  this  marriage  of 
Flory's  is  a  cursed  bore." 

"Why,  indeed,  it  has  its  disadvantages.  Maltravers  is  a 
gentleman  and  a  man  of  genius ;  but  gentlemen  are  plentiful, 
and  his  genius  only  tells  against  us,  since  he  is  not  even  of 
our  politics." 

"Exactly;  my  own  son-in-law  voting  against  me!  " 

"A  practicable,  reasonable  man  would  change, —  not  so 
Maltravers ;  and  all  the  estates  and  all  the  parliamentary  in- 
fluence and  all  the  wealth  that  ought  to  go  with  the  family 
and  with  the  party  go  out  of  the  family  and  against  the  party. 
You  are  quite  right,  my  dear  lord,  it  is  a  cursed  bore." 

"  And  she  might  have  had  the  Duke  of ,  —  a  man  with 

a  rental  of  a  hundred  thousand  pounds  a  year.  It  is  too 
ridiculous.  This  Maltravers, —  d — d  disagreeable  fellow  too, 
eh?" 

"Stiff  and  stately;  much  changed  for  the  worse  of  late 
years, —  grown  conceited  and  set  up." 

"  Do  you  know,  Lumley,  I  would  rather,  of  the  two,  have 
had  you  for  my  son-in-law !  " 

Lumley  half  started.  "Are  you  serious,  my  lord?  I  have 
not  Ernest's  fortune,  I  cannot  make  such*  settlements;  my 
lineage,  too,  at  least  on  my  mother's  side,  is  less  ancient." 

"Oh,  as  to  settlements,  Flory's  fortune  ought  to  be  settled 
on  herself;  and  as  compared  with  that  fortune,  what  could 
Mr.  Maltravers  pretend  to  settle?     Neither  she  nor  any  chil- 


340  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

dren  she  may  have  could  want  his  four  thousand  pounds  a 
year,  if  he  settled  it  all.  As  for  family,  connections  tell 
more  nowadays  than  Norman  descent;  and  for  the  rest,  you 
are  likely  to  be  old  Templeton's  heir,  to  have  a  peerage  (a 
large  sum  of  ready  money  is  always  useful),  are  rising  in  the 
House,  one  of  our  own  set,  will  soon  be  in  office,  and,  flat- 
tery apart,  a  devilish  good  fellow  into  the  bargain.  Oh,  I 
would  sooner  a  thousand  times  that  Flory  had  taken  a  fancy 
to  you." 

Lumley  Ferrers  bowed  his  head,  but  said  nothing.  He  fell 
into  a  re  very ;  and  Lord  Saxingham  took  up  his  official  red 
box,  became  deep  in  its  contents,  and  forgot  all  about  the 
marriage  of  his  daughter. 

Lumley  pulled  the  check-string  as  the  carriage  entered  Pall 
Mall,  and  desired  to  be  set  down  at  "The  Travellers."  While 
Lord  Saxingham  was  borne  on  to  settle  the  affairs  of  the  na- 
tion, not  being  able  to  settle  those  of  his  own  household, 
Ferrers  was  inquiring  the  address  of  Castruccio  Cesarini. 
The  porter  was  unable  to  give  it  him.  The  signor  generally 
called  every  day  for  his  notes,  but  no  one  at  the  club  knew 
where  he  lodged.  Ferrers  wrote  and  left  with  the  porter  a 
line  requesting  Cesarini  to  call  on  him  as  soon  as  possible, 
and  he  bent  his  way  to  his  house  in  Great  George  Street.  He 
went  straight  into  his  library,  unlocked  his  escritoire,  and 
took  out  that  letter  which,  the  reader  will  remember,  Mal- 
travers  had  written  to  Cesarini,  and  which  Lumley  had  se- 
cured; carefully  did  he  twice  read  over  this  effusion,  and  the 
second  time  his  face  brightened  and  his  eyes  sparkled.  It  is 
now  time  to  lay  this  letter  before  the  reader;  it  ran  thus:  — 

Private  and  Confidential. 

My  DEAR  Cesauini,  —  The  assurance  of  your  friendly  feelings  is 
most  welcome  to  me.  In  much  of  what  you  say  of  marriaf:;;e,  I  am  in- 
clined, though  with  reluctance,  to  agree.  As  to  Lady  Florence  herself, 
few  persons  are  more  calculated  to  dazzle,  perhaps  to  fascinate.  But  is 
she  a  person  to  make  a  home  happy,  to  sympathize  where  she  has  been 
accustomed  to  command,  to  comprehend  and  to  yield  to  the  wayward- 
ness and  irritability  common  to  our  fanciful  and  morbid  race,  to  content 
herself  with  the  homasfe  of  a  single  heart  ?     I  do  not  know  her  enough 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  341 

to  decide  the  question ;  but  I  know  Ler  enough  to  feel  deep  soUcitudi- 
and  anxiety  for  your  happiness,  if  centred  in  a  nature  so  imperious  and 
so  vain.  But  you  will  remind  me  of  her  fortune,  her  station.  You  will 
say  that  such  are  the  sources  from  which,  to  an  ambitious  mind,  happi- 
ness may  well  be  drawn.  Alas !  I  fear  that  the  man  who  marries  Lady 
Florence  must  indeed  confine  his  dreams  of  felicity  to  those  harsh  and 
disappointing  realities.  But,  Cesarini,  these  are  not  words  which,  were 
we  more  intimate,  I  would  address  to  you.  I  doubt  the  reality  of  tho^^e 
affections  which  you  ascribe  to  her,  and  suppose  devoted  to  youn^^eU. 
She  is  evidently  fond  of  conquest.  She  sports  with  the  victims  she 
makes.  Her  vanity  dupes  others,  —  perhaps  to  be  duped  itself  at  last. 
I  will  not  say  more  to  you. 

Yours,  E.  Maltravers. 

"Hurrah!"  cried  Ferrers,  as  he  threw  down  the  letter,  and 
rubbed  his  hands  with  delight.  "I  little  thought,  when  I 
schemed  for  this  letter,  that  chance  would  make  it  so  inesti- 
mably serviceable.  There  is  less  to  alter  than  I  thought  for; 
the  clumsiest  botcher  in  the  world  could  manage  it.  Let  me 
look  again.  Hem!  hem!  The  first  phrase  to  alter  is  this: 
*  I  know  her  enough  to  feel  deep  solicitude  and  anxiety  for 
your  happiness  if  centred  in  a  nature  so  imperious  and  vain, ' 
—  scratch  out  'your,'  and  put  'my.'  All  the  rest  good, 
good,  till  we  come  to  '  affections  which  you  ascribe  to  her, 
and  suppose  devoted  to  yourself,^ —  for  '  yourBeii  '  writs  '  my- 
self ; '  the  rest  will  do.  Xow,  then,  the  date:  we  must  change 
it  to  the  present  month,  and  the  work  is  done.  I  wish  that 
Italian  blockhead  would  come.  If  I  can  but  once  make  an 
irreparable  breach  between  her  and  Maltravers,  I  think  I  can- 
not fail  of  securing  his  place ;  her  pique,  her  resentment,  will 
hurry  her  into  taking  the  first  who  offers,  by  way  of  revenge. 
And  by  Jupiter,  even  if  I  fail  (which  I  am  sure  I  shall  not), 
it  will  be  something  to  keep  Flory  as  lady  paramount  for  a 
duke  of  our  own  party.  I  shall  gain  immensely  by  such  a 
connection;  but  I  lose  everything  and  gain  nothing  by  her 
marrying  Maltravers, —  of  opposite  politics  too, —  whom  I  be- 
gin to  hate  like  poison.  But  no  duke  shall  have  her.  Flor- 
ence Ferrers, —  the  only  alliteration  I  ever  liked;  yet  it  would 
sound  rough  in  poetry." 

Lumley  then  deliberately  drew  towards  him  his  inkstand. 


342  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

"I^To  penknife!  Ah,  true,  I  never  mend  pens, —  sad  waste; 
must  send  out  for  one."  He  rang  the  bell,  ordered  a  pen- 
knife to  be  purchased,  and  the  servant  was  still  out  when  a 
knock  at  the  door  was  heard,  and  in  a  minute  more  Cesarini 
entered. 

"Ah,"  said  Lumley,  assuming  a  melancholy  air,  "I  am  glad 
that  you  are  arrived;  you  will  excuse  my  having  written  to 
you  so  unceremoniously.  You  received  my  note.  Sit  down, 
pray.  And  how  are  you?  You  look  delicate.  Can  I  offer 
you  anything?  " 

"Wine,"  said  Cesarini,  laconically,  "wine;  your  climate 
requires  wine." 

Here  the  servant  entered  with  the  penknife,  and  was  or- 
dered to  bring  wine  and  sandwiches.  Lumley  then  conversed 
lightly  on  different  matters  till  the  wine  appeared;  he  was 
rather  surprised  to  observe  Cesarini  pour  out  and  drink  off 
glass  upon  glass,  with  an  evident  craving  for  the  excitement. 
When  he  had  satisfied  himself,  he  turned  his  dark  eyes  to 
Ferrers,  and  said,  "You  have  news  to  communicate;  I  see  it 
in  your  brow.     I  am  now  ready  to  hear  all." 

"Well,  then,  listen  to  me.  You  were  right  in  your  sus- 
picions; jealousy  is  ever  a  true  diviner.  I  make  no  doubt 
Othello  was  quite  right,  and  Desdemona  was  no  better  than 
she  should  be.  Maltravers  has  proposed  to  my  cousin,  and 
been  accepted." 

Cesarini's  complexion  grew  perfectly  ghastly;  his  whole 
frame  shook  like  a  leaf;  for  a  moment  he  seemed  paralyzed. 

"Curse  him!  "  said  he  at  last,  drawing  a  deep  breath,  and 
betwixt  his  grinded  teeth, —  "curse  him  from  the  depths  of 
the  heart  he  has  broken !  " 

"And  after  such  a  letter  to  you!  Do  you  remember  it? 
Here  it  is.  He  warns  you  against  Lady  Florence,  and  then 
secures  her  to  himself.     Is  this  treachery?  " 

"Treachery  black  as  hell!  I  am  an  Italian,"  cried  Cesarini, 
springing  to  his  feet,  and  with  all  the  passions  of  his  climate 
in  his  face,  "and  I  will  be  avenged!  Bankrupt  in  fortune, 
ruined  in  hopes,  blasted  in  heart,  I  have  still  the  godlike  con- 
solation of  the  desperate, —  I  have  revenge." 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  343 

"Will  you  call  him  out?"  asked  Lumley,  musingly  and 
calmly.  "Are  you  a  dead  shot?  If  so,  it  is  worth  thinking 
about;  if  not,  it  is  a  mockery:  your  shot  misses,  his  goes  in 
the  air,  seconds  interpose,  and  you  both  walk  away  devilish 
glad  to  get  off  so  well.     Duels  are  humbugs." 

"Mr.  Ferrers,"  said  Cesarini,  fiercely,  "this  is  not  a  matter 
of  jest." 

"I  do  not  make  it  a  jest;  and  what  is  more,  Cesarini,"  said 
Ferrers,  with  a  concentrated  energy  far  more  commanding 
than  the  Italian's  fury,  "what  is  more,  I  so  detest  Mal- 
travers,  I  am  so  stung  by  his  cold  superiority,  so  wroth  with 
his  success,  so  loathe  the  thought  of  his  alliance,  that  I  would 
cut  off  this  hand  to  frustrate  that  marriage !  I  do  not  jest, 
man,  but  I  have  method  and  sense  in  my  hatred, —  it  is  our 
English  way." 

Cesarini  stared  at  the  speaker  gloomily,  clenched  his  hand, 
and  strode  rapidly  to  and  fro  the  room. 

"  You  would  be  avenged,  so  would  I.  Now  what  shall  be 
the  means?"   said  Ferrers. 

"I  will  stab  him  to  the  heart;  I  will  —  " 

"Cease  these  tragic  flights.  Nay,  frown  and  stamp  not, 
but  sit  down  and  be  reasonable,  or  leave  me  and  act  for 
yourself." 

"Sir,"  said  Cesarini,  with  an  eye  that  might  have  alarmed 
a  man  less  resolute  than  Ferrers,  "have  a  care  how  you  pre- 
sume on  my  distress." 

"You  are  in  distress,  and  you  refuse  relief;  you  are  bank- 
rupt in  fortune,  and  you  rave  like  a  poet  when  you  should 
be  devising  and  plotting  for  the  attainment  of  boundless 
wealth.  Revenge  and  ambition  may  both  be  yours ;  but  they 
are  prizes  never  won  but  by  a  cautious  foot  as  well  as  a  bold 
hand." 

"What  would  you  have  me  do?  And  what  but  his  life 
would  content  me?" 

"Take  his  life  if  you  can, —  I  have  no  objection;  go  and 
take  it.  Only  just  observe  this,  that  if  you  miss  your  aim, 
or  he,  being  the  stronger  man,  strike  you  down,  you  will  be 
locked  up  in  a  madhouse  for  the  next  year  or  two  at  least; 


344  ERXEST  MALTRAVERS. 

and  that  is  not  the  place  in  which  I  should  like  to  pass  the 
winter.     But  as  you  will." 

"You,  you!  But  what  are  you  to  me?  I  will  go.  Good- 
day,  sir." 

"Stay  a  moment,"  said  Ferrers,  when  he  saw  Cesarini 
about  to  leave  the  room, —  "stay,  take  this  chair,  and  listen 
to  me ;  you  had  better  —  " 

Cesarini  hesitated,  and  then,  as  it  were,  mechanically 
obeyed. 

"Read  that  letter  which  Maltravers  wrote  to  you.  You 
have  finished.  Well,  now  observe:  if  Florence  sees  that 
letter,  she  will  not  and  cannot  marry  the  man  who  wrote  it; 
you  must  show  it  to  her." 

"Ah,  my  guardian  angel,  I  see  it  all!  Yes,  there  are 
words  in  this  letter  no  woman  so  proud  could  ever  pardon. 
Give  me  it  again;   I  will  go  at  once." 

"  Pshaw !  You  are  too  quick ;  you  have  not  remarked  that 
this  letter  was  written  five  months  ago,  before  Maltravers  knew 
much  of  Lady  Florence.  He  himself  has  confessed  to  her 
that  he  did  not  then  love  her,  —  so  much  the  more  would  she 
value  the  conquest  she  has  now  achieved.  Florence  would  smile 
at  this  letter  and  say,  '  Ah,  he  judges  me  differently  now. '  " 

"Are  you  seeking  to  madden  me?  What  do  you  mean? 
Did  you  not  just  now  say  that,  did  she  see  that  letter,  she 
would  never  marry  the  writer?  " 

"  Yes,  yes ;  but  the  letter  must  be  altered.  We  must  erase 
the  date;  we  must  date  it  from  to-day, —  to-day:  Maltravers 
returns  to-day.  We  must  suppose  it  written,  not  in  answer 
to  a  letter  from  3'ou  demanding  his  advice  and  opinion  as  to 
your  marriage  with  Lady  Florence,  but  in  answer  to  a  letter 
of  yours  in  which  you  congratulate  liim  on  his  approaching 
marriage  to  her.  By  the  substitution  of  one  pronoun  for  an- 
other in  two  places,  the  letter  will  read  as  well  one  way  as 
another.  Eead  it  again,  and  see;  or  stop, —  I  will  be  the 
lecturer." 

Here  Ferrers  read  over  the  letter,  which,  by  the  trifling 
substitutions  he  proposed,  might  indeed  bear  the  character  he 
wished  to  give  it. 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  345 

"Does  the  light  break  in  upon  you  now?"  said  Ferrers. 
"Are  you  prepared  to  go  through  a  part  that  requires  sub- 
tlety, delicacy,  address,  and,  above  all,  self-control, —  quali- 
ties that  are  the  common  attributes  of  your  countrymen?  " 

"  I  will  do  all,  fear  me  not.  It  may  be  villanous,  it  may 
be  base;  but  I  care  not,  Maltravers  shall  not  rival,  master, 
eclipse  me  in  all  things." 

"Where  are  you  lodging?  " 

"Where?     Out  of  town  a  little  way." 

"Take  up  your  home  with  me  for  a  few  days.  I  cannot 
trust  you  out  of  my  sight.  Send  for  your  luggage;  I  have  a 
room  at  your  service." 

Cesarini  at  first  refused;  but  a  man  who  resolves  on  a  crime 
feels  the  awe  of  solitude  and  the  necessity  of  a  companion. 
He  went  himself  to  bring  his  effects,  and  promised  to  return 
to  dinner. 

"I  must  own,"  said  Lumley,  resettling  himself  at  his  desk, 
"this  is  the  dirtiest  trick  that  ever  I  played;  but  the  glorious 
end  sanctifies  the  paltry  means.  After  all,  it  is  the  mere 
prejudice  of  gentlemanlike  education." 

A  very  few  seconds,  and  with  the  aid  of  the  knife  to  erase, 
and  the  pen  to  re-write,  Ferrers  completed  his  task,  with  the 
exception  of  the  change  of  date,  which,  on  second  thoughts, 
he  reserved  as  a  matter  to  be  regulated  by  circumstances. 

"I  think  I  have  hit  off  his  m's  and  y's  tolerably,"  said  he, 
"considering  I  was  not  brought  up  to  this  sort  of  thing.  But 
the  alteration  would  be  visible  on  close  inspection.  Cesarini 
must  read  the  letter  to  her;  then,  if  she  glances  over  it  her- 
self, it  will  be  with  bewildered  eyes  and  a  dizzy  brain. 
Above  all,  he  must  not  leave  it  with  her,  and  must  bind  her 
to  the  closest  secrecy.  She  is  honourable,  and  will  keep  her 
word ;  and  so  now  that  matter  is  settled.  I  have  just  time 
before  dinner  to  canter  down  to  my  uncle's  and  wish  the  old 
fellow  joy." 


346  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 


CHAPTER  V. 

And  then  my  lord  has  much  that  he  would  state 
All  good  to  you.  —  Crabbe  :  Tales  of  the  Heart. 

Lord  Vargrave  was  sitting  alone  in  his  library,  with  his 
account-books  before  him.  Carefully  did  he  cast  up  the  vari- 
ous sums  which,  invested  in  various  speculations,  swelled  his 
income.  The  result  seemed  satisfactory,  and  the  rich  man 
threw  down  his  pen  with  an  air  of  triumph.  ''  I  will  invest 
a  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  pounds  in  land, —  only  a 
hundred  and  twenty  thousand  pounds.  I  will  not  be  tempted 
to  sink  more.  I  will  have  a  fine  house,  a  house  fitting  for  a 
nobleman, —  a  fine  old  Elizabethan  house,  a  house  of  historical 
interest.  I  must  have  woods  and  lakes,  and  a  deer-park 
above  all.  Deer  are  very  gentlemanlike  things,  very.  De 
Clifford's  place  is  to  be  sold,  I  know;  they  ask  too  much  for 
it,  but  ready  money  is  tempting.  I  can  bargain,  bargain ;  I 
am  a  good  hand  at  a  bargain.  Should  I  be  now  Lord  Baron 
Vargrave  if  I  had  always  given  people  what  they  asked?  I 
will  double  my  subscriptions  to  the  Bible  Society  and  the 
Philanthropic  and  the  building  of  new  churches.  The  world 
shall  not  say  Richard  Templeton  does  not  deserve  his  great- 
ness.    I  will —     Come  in.     Who  's  there?     Come  in." 

The  door  gently  opened;  the  meek  face  of  the  new  peeress 
appeared.     "  I  disturb  you ;  I  beg  your  pardon  —  I  —  " 

"Come  in,  my  dear,  come  in;  I  want  to  talk  to  you;  I 
want  to  talk  to  your  ladyship.     Sit  down,  pray." 

Lady  Vargrave  obeyed. 

"You  see,"  said  the  peer,  crossing  his  legs  and  caressing 
his  left  foot  with  both  hands,  while  he  see-sawed  his  stately 
person  to  and  fro  in  his  chair, —  "you  see  that  the  honour 
conferred  upon  me  will  make  a  great  change  in  our  ftiode  of 
life,  Mrs.  Temple — ,  I  mean  Lady  Vargrave.  This  villa  is 
all  very  well,  my  country-house  is  not  amiss  for  a  country 


ERNEST   MALTRAYERS.  347 

gentleman;  but  now  we  must  support  our  rank.  The  landed 
estate  I  already  possess  will  go  with  the  title, —  go  to  Lum- 
ley ;  I  shall  buy  another  at  my  own  disposal,  one  that  I  can 
feel  thoroughly  mine.  It  shall  be  a  splendid  place,  Lady 
Vargrave." 

"This  place  is  splendid  to  me,"  said  Lady  Vargrave, 
timidly. 

"This  place, —  nonsense!  You  must  learn  loftier  ideas, 
Lady  Vargrave.  You  are  young,  you  can  easily  contract  new 
habits,  — more  easily,  perhaps,  than  myself.  You  are  natur- 
ally ladylike,  though  I  say  it;  you  have  good  taste,  you  don't 
talk  much,  you  don't  show  your  ignorance, —  quite  right. 
You  must  be  presented  at  court,  Lady  Vargrave;  we  must 
give  great  dinners,  Lady  Vargrave.  Balls  are  sinful,  so  is 
the  opera, —  at  least  I  fear  so;  yet  an  opera-box  would  be 
a  proper  appendage  to  your  rank,  Lady  Vargrave." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Templeton  —  " 

"Lord  Vargrave,  if  your  ladyship  pleases." 

"I  beg  pardon.  May  you  live  long  to  enjoy  your  honours! 
But  I,  my  dear  lord, —  I  am  not  fit  to  share  them;  it  is  only 
in  our  quiet  life  that  I  can  forget  what  —  what  I  was.  You 
terrify  me  when  you  talk  of  court  —  of  —  " 

"Stuff,  Lady  Vargrave!  stuff;  we  accustom  ourselves  to 
these  things.  Do  I  look  like  a  man  who  has  stood  behind  a 
counter?  Bank  is  a  glove  that  stretches  to  the  hand  that 
wears  it.  And  the  child,— dear  child,  dear  Evelyn, —she 
shall  be  the  admiration  of  London,  the  beauty,  the  heiress, 
the —      Oh,  she  will  do  me  honour !  " 

"  She  will,  she  will !  "  said  Lady  Vargrave ;  and  the  tears 
gushed  from  her  eyes. 

Lord  Vargrave  was  softened. 

"  No  mother  ever  deserved  more  from  a  child  than  you  from 
Evelyn." 

"I  would  hope  I  have  done  my  duty,"  said  Lady  Vargrave, 
drying  her  tears. 

"Papa,  Papa!"  cried  an  impatient  voice,  tapping  at  the 
window,  "come  and  play,  Papa;  come  and  play  at  ball, 
Papa! " 


348  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

And  there,  by  the  window,  stood  that  beautiful  child, 
glowing  with  health  and  mirth,  her  light  hair  tossed  from 
her  forehead,  her  sweet  mouth  dimpled  with  smiles. 

"My  darling,  go  on  the  lawn;  don't  over-exert  yourself; 
you  have  not  quite  recovered  that  horrid  sprain.  I  will  join 
you  immediately.     Bless  you!  " 

"Don't  be  long.  Papa, —  nobody  plays  so  nicely  as  you  do;" 
and  nodding  and  laughing  from  very  glee,  away  scampered 
the  young  fairy.     Lord  Vargrave  turned  to  his  wife. 

"What  think  you  of  my  nephew, —  of  Lumley?  "  said  he, 
abruptly. 

"He  seems  all  that  is  amiable,  frank,  and  kind." 

Lord  Vargrave's  brow  became  thoughtful. 

"I  think  so  too,"  he  said,  after  a  short  pause;  "and  I  hope 
you  Avill  approve  of  what  I  mean  to  do.  You  see  Lumley  was 
brought  up  to  regard  himself  as  my  heir;  I  owe  something 
to  him  beyond  the  poor  estate  which  goes  with,  but  never 
can  adequately  support,  my  title.  Family  honours,  hereditary 
rank,  must  be  properly  regarded.  But  that  dear  girl,  I  shall 
leave  her  the  bulk  of  my  fortune.  Could  we  not  unite  the 
fortune  and  the  title?  It  would  secure  the  rank  to  her,  it 
would  incorporate  all  my  desires,  all  my  duties." 

"But,"  said  Lady  Vargrave,  with  evident  surprise,  "if  I 
understand  you  rightly,  the  disparity  of  years  —  " 

"And  what  then,  what  then,  Lady  Vargrave?  Is  there  no 
disparity  of  years  between  us?  —  a  greater  disparity  than  be- 
tween Lumley  and  that  tall  girl.  Lumley  is  a  mere  youth,  a 
youth  still,  five-and-thirt}' ;  he  will  be  little  more  than  forty 
when  they  marry.  I  was  between  fifty  and  sixty  when  I  mar- 
ried you,  Lady  Vargrave.  I  don't  like  boy  and  girl  mar- 
riages; a  man  should  be  older  than  his  wife.  But  you  are 
so  romantic,  Lady  Vargrave.  Besides,  Lumley  is  so  gay  and 
good-looking,  and  wears  so  well.  He  has  been  very  nearly 
forming  another  attachment;  but  that,  I  trust,  is  out  of  his 
head  now.  They  must  like  each  other.  You  will  not  gainsay 
me,  Lady  Vargrave,  and  if  anything  happens  to  me, —  life  is 
uncertain  —  " 

"  Oh,  do  not  speak  so,  my  friend,  my  benefactor !  " 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  349 

"Why,  indeed,"  resumed  his  lordship,  mildly,  "thank 
Heaven,  I  am  very  well, —  feel  younger  than  ever  I  did;  but 
still,  life  is  uncertain,  and  if  you  survive  me,  you  will  not 
throw  obstacles  in  the  way  of  my  grand  scheme?" 

"I  —  no  —  no  —  Of  course  you  have  the  right  in  all  things 
over  her  destiny ;  but  so  young,  so  soft-hearted,  if  she  should 
love  one  of  her  own  years  —  " 

"Love,  pooh!  Love  does  not  come  into  girls'  heads  unless 
it  is  put  there.  We  will  bring  her  up  to  love  Lumley,  I 
have  another  reason,  a  cogent  one, —  our  secret !  To  him  it  can 
be  confided ;  it  should  not  go  out  of  our  family.  Even  in  my 
grave  I  could  not  rest  if  a  slur  were  cast  on  my  respectabilit}', 
my  name." 

Lord  Vargrave  spoke  solemnly  and  warmly;  then  mutter- 
ing to  himself,  "Yes,  it  is  for  the  best,"  he  took  up  his  hat 
and  quitted  the  room.  He  joined  his  stepchild  on  the  lawn. 
He  romped  with  her,  he  played  with  her, —  that  stiff,  stately 
man!  he  laughed  louder  than  she  did,  and  ran  almost  as  fast. 
And  when  she  was  fatigued  and  breathless,  he  made  her  sit 
down  beside  him  in  a  little  summer-house,  and  fondly  strok- 
ing down  her  disordered  tresses,  said,  "You  tire  me  out, 
child;  I  am  growing  too  old  to  play  with  you.  Lumley  must 
supply  my  place.     You  love  Lumley?  " 

"Oh,  dearly;  he  is  so  good-humoured,  so  kind, —  he  has 
given  me  such  a  beautiful  doll,  with  such  eyes !  " 

"You  shall  be  his  little  wife.  You  would  like  to  be  his 
little  wife?" 

"Wife!  Why,  poor  mamma  is  a  wife,  and  she  is  not  so 
happy  as  I  am." 

"Your  mamma  has  bad  health,  my  dear,"  said  Lord  Var- 
grave, a  little  discomposed.  "  But  it  is  a  fine  thing  to  be  a 
wife,  and  have  a  carriage  of  your  own,  and  a  fine  house,  and 
jewels,  and  plenty  of  money,  and  be  your  own  mistress;  and 
Lumley  will  love  you  dearly." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  should  like  all  that." 

"And  you  will  have  a  protector,  child,  when  I  am  no 
more." 

The  tone  rather  than  the  words  of  her  stepfather  struck  a 


350  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

damp  into  tliat  childisli  heart.  Evelyn  lifted  her  eyes,  gazed 
at  him  earnestly,  and  then,  throwing  her  arms  round  him, 
burst  into  tears. 

Lord  Vargrave  wiped  his  own  eyes  and  covered  her  with 
kisses. 

"Yes,  you  shall  be  Lumley's  wife, — his  honoured  wife, 
heiress  to  my  rank  as  to  my  fortunes." 

"I  will  do  all  that  Papa  wishes." 

"You  will  be  Lady  Vargrave,  then,  and  Lumley  will  be 
your  husband,"  said  the  stepfather,  impressively.  "Think 
over  what  I  have  said.  Now  let  us  join  Mamma.  But,  as  I 
live,  here  is  Lumley  himself!  However,  it  is  not  yet  the  time 
to  sound  him  j  I  hope  that  he  has  no  chance  with  that  Lady 
Florence." 


CHAPTER  VL 

Fair  encounter 
Of  two  most  rare  affections.  —  Tempest. 

Meanwhile  the  betrothed  were  on  their  road  to  London. 
The  balmy  and  serene  beauty  of  the  day  had  induced  them  to 
perform  the  short  journey  on  horseback.  It  is  somewhere 
said  that  lovers  are  never  so  handsome  as  in  each  other's 
company,  and  neither  Florence  nor  Ernest  ever  looked  so  well 
as  on  horseback.  There  was  something  in  the  stateliness  and 
grace  of  both,  something  even  in  the  aquiline  outline  of  their 
features  and  the  haughty  bend  of  the  neck  that  made  a  sort 
of  likeness  between  these  young  persons,  although  there  was 
no  comparison  as  to  their  relative  degrees  of  personal  advan- 
tage; the  beauty  of  Florence  defied  all  comparison.  And  as 
they  rode  from  Cleveland's  porch,  where  the  other  guests  yet 
lingering  were  assembled  to  give  the  farewell  greeting,  there 
was  a  general  conviction  of  the  happiness  destined  to  the  affi- 
anced ones, —  a  general   impression  that  both  in  mind  and 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  351 

person  they  were  eminently  suited  to  each  other.  Their  posi- 
tion was  that  which  is  ever  interesting,  even  in  more  ordinary 
people,  and  at  that  moment  they  were  absolutely  popular  witli 
all  who  gazed  on  them;  and  when  the  good  old  Cleveland 
turned  away  with  tears  in  his  eyes  and  murmured  "Bless 
them!  "  there  was  not  one  of  the  party  who  would  have  hesi- 
tated to  join  the  prayer. 

Florence  felt  a  nameless  dejection  as  she  quitted  a  spot  so 
consecrated  by  grateful  recollections. 

"When  shall  we  be  again  so  happy?"  said  she,  softly,  as 
she  turned  back  to  gaze  upon  the  landscape,  which,  gay  with 
flowers  and  shrubs  and  the  bright  English  verdure,  smiled 
behind  them  like  a  garden. 

"  We  will  try  and  make  my  old  hall  and  its  gloomy  shades 
remind  us  of  these  fairer  scenes,  my  Florence." 

"Ah!  describe  to  me  the  character  of  your  place.  We  shall 
live  there  principally,  shall  we  not?  I  am  sure  I  shall  like 
it  much  better  than  Marsden  Court,  which  is  the  name  of  that 
huge  pile  of  arches  and  columns,  in  Yanbrugh's  heaviest  taste, 
which  will  soon  be  yours." 

"I  fear  we  shall  never  dispose  of  all  your  mighty  retinue, — 
grooms  of  the  chamber,  and  Patagonian  footmen,  and  Heaven 
knows  who  besides,  in  the  holes  and  corners  of  Burleigh," 
said  Ernest,  smiling.  And  then  he  went  on  to  describe  the 
old  place  with  something  of  a  well-born  country  gentleman's 
not  displeasing  pride ;  and  Florence  listened,  and  they  planned 
and  altered  and  added  and  improved,  and  laid  out  a  map  for 
the  future.  From  that  topic  they  turned  to  another,  equally 
interesting  to  Florence.  The  work  in  which  Maltravers  had 
been  engaged  was  completed,  was  in  the  hands  of  the  printer, 
and  Florence  amused  herself  with  conjectures  as  to  the  criti- 
cisms it  would  provoke.  She  was  certain  that  all  that  had 
most  pleased  her  would  be  caviare  to  the  multitude.  She 
never  would  believe  that  any  one  could  understand  Maltravers 
but  herself.  Thus  time  flew  on  till  they  passed  that  part  of 
the  road  in  which  had  occurred  Ernest's  adventure  with  ]\Irs. 
Templeton's  daughter.  ]\raltravers  paused  abruptly  in  the 
midst  of  his  glowing  periods  as  the  spot  awakened  its  asso- 


352  ERXEST   MALTRAYERS. 

ciations  and  reminiscences,  and  looked  round  anxiously  and 
inquiringly.  But  the  fair  apparition  was  not  again  visible; 
and  whatever  impression  the  place  produced,  it  gradually 
died  away  as  they  entered  the  suburbs  of  the  great  metropolis. 
Two  other  gentlemen  and  a  young  lady  of  thirty-three  (I  had 
almost  forgotten  them)  were  of  the  party ;  but  they  had  the 
tact  to  linger  a  little  behind  during  the  greater  part  of  the 
road,  and  the  young  lady,  who  was  a  wit  and  a  flirt,  found 
gossip  and  sentiment  for  both  the  cavaliers. 

"Will  you  come  to  us  this  evening?"  asked  Florence, 
timidly. 

"  I  fear  I  shall  not  be  able.  I  have  several  matters  to  ar- 
range before  I  leave  town  for  Burleigh,  which  I  must  do  next 
week.  Three  months,  dearest  Florence,  will  scarcely  suffice 
to  make  Burleigh  put  on  its  best  looks  to  greet  its  new  mis- 
tress ;  and  I  have  already  appointed  the  great  modern  magi- 
cians of  draperies  and  ormolu  to  consult  how  we  may  make 
Aladdin's  palace  fit  for  the  reception  of  the  new  princess. 
Lawyers  too!  —  in  short,  I  expect  to  be  fully  occupied.  But 
to-morrow,  at  three,  I  shall  be  with  you,  and  we  can  ride  out, 
if  the  day  be  fine." 

"Surely,"  said  Florence,  "yonder  is  Signor  Cesarini.  How 
haggard  and  altered  he  appears!  " 

Maltravers,  turning  his  eyes  towards  the  spot  to  which 
Florence  pointed,  saw  Cesarini  emerging  from  a  lane,  with  a 
porter  behind  him  carrying  some  books  and  a  trunk.  The 
Italian,  who  was  talking  and  gesticulating  as  to  himself,  did 
not  perceive  them. 

"Poor  Castruccio!  he  seems  leaving  his  lodging,"  thought 
Maltravers.  "  By  this  time  I  fear  he  will  have  spent  the  last 
sum  I  conveyed  to  him.  I  must  remember  to  find  him  out 
and  replenish  his  stores. —  Do  not  forget,"  said  he,  aloud,  "to 
see  Cesarini,  and  urge  him  to  accept  the  appointment  we 
spoke  of." 

"I  will  not  forget  it;  I  will  see  him  to-morrow  before  we 
meet.     Yet  it  is  a  painful  task,  Ernest." 

"I  allow  it.  Alas!  Florence,  you  owe  him  some  repara- 
tion.    He   undoubtedly  once   conceived   himself   entitled  to 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  353 

form  hopes,  the  vanity  of  which  his  ignorance  of  our  English 
world  and  his  foreign  birth  prevented  him  from  suspecting." 

"Believe  me,  I  did  not  give  him  the  right  to  form  such 
expectations." 

*'  But  you  did  not  sufficiently  discourage  them.  Ah,  Flor- 
ence, never  underrate  the  j)angs  of  hope  crushed,  of  love 
contemned." 

"Dreadful!"  said  Florence,  almost  shuddering.  "It  is 
strange,  but  my  conscience  never  so  smote  me  before.  It  is 
since  I  loved  that  I  feel,  for  the  first  time,  how  guilty  a 
creature  is  —  " 

"A  coquette!"  interrupted  Maltravers.  "Well,  let  us 
think  of  the  past  no  more;  but  if  we  can  restore  a  gifted 
man,  whose  youth  promised  much,  to  an  honourable  inde- 
pendence and  a  healthful  mind,  let  us  do  so.  Me,  Cesarini 
never  can  forgive ;  he  will  think  I  have  robbed  him  of  you. 
But  we  men, —  the  woman  we  have  once  loved,  even  after  she 
rejects  us,  ever  has  some  power  over  us,  and  your  eloquence, 
which  has  so  often  roused  me,  cannot  fail  to  impress  a  nature 
yet  more  excitable." 

Maltravers,  on  quitting  Florence  at  her  own  door,  went 
home,  summoned  his  favourite  servant,  gave  him  Cesarini's 
address  at  Chelsea,  bade  him  find  out  where  he  was,  if  he 
had  left  his  lodgings,  and  leave  at  his  present  home,  or 
(failing  its  discovery)  at  "The  Travellers,"  a  cover,  which 
he  made  his  servant  address,  inclosing  a  bank-note  of  some 
amount.  If  the  reader  wonder  why  Maltravers  thus  consti- 
tuted himself  the  unknown  benefactor  of  the  Italian,  I  must 
tell  him  that  he  does  not  understand  Maltravers.  Cesarini 
was  not  the  only  man  of  letters  whose  faults  he  pitied,  whose 
wants  he  relieved.  Though  his  name  seldom  shone  in  the 
pompous  list  of  public  subscri})tions,  though  he  disdained  to 
affect  the  Maecenas  and  the  patron,  he  felt  the  brotherhood  of 
mankind,  and  a  kind  of  gratitude  for  those  who  aspired  to  rise 
or  to  delight  their  species.  An  author  himself,  he  could  ap- 
preciate the  vast  debt  which  the  world  owes  to  authors,  and 
pays  but  by  calumny  in  life,  and  barren  laurels  after  death. 
He  whose  profession  is  the  Beautiful  succeeds  only  through 

23 


354  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

the  Sympatliies.  Charity  and  compassion  are  virtues  taught 
with  difficulty  to  ordinary  men;  to  true  genius  they  are  but 
the  instincts  which  direct  it  to  the  destiny  it  is  born  to  fulfil, 
—  namely,  the  discovery  and  redemption  of  new  tracts  in  our 
common  nature.  Genius  —  the  Sublime  Missionary  —  goes 
forth  from  the  serene  Intellect  of  the  Author  to  live  in  the 
wants,  the  griefs,  the  infirmities  of  others,  in  order  that  it 
may  learn  their  language;  and  as  its  highest  achievement  is 
Pathos,  so  its  most  absolute  requisite  is  Pity! 


CHAPTEE  VII. 

Don  John.     How  canst  thou  cross  this  marriage  1 

Borachio.     Not  honestly,  my  lord,  but  so  covertly  that  no  dishonesty  shall 
appear  in  me,  my  lord.  —  Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 

Ferrers  and  Cesarini  were  both  sitting  over  their  wine, 
and  both  had  sunk  into  silence,  for  they  had  only  one  subject 
in  common,  when  a  note  was  brought  to  Lumley  from  Lady 
Florence.  "  This  is  lucky  enough !  "  said  he,  as  he  read  it. 
"Lady  Florence  wishes  to  see  you,  and  incloses  me  a  note  for 
you  which  she  asks  me  to  address  and  forward  to  you.  There 
it  is." 

Cesarini  took  the  note  with  trembling  hands.  It  was  very 
short,  and  merely  expressed  a  desire  to  see  him  the  next  day 
at  two  o'clock. 

"What  can  it  be?"  he  exclaimed.  "Can  she  want  to 
apologize,  to  explain  ?  " 

"Ko,  no,  no!  Florence  will  not  do  that;  but  from  certain 
words  she  dropped  in  talking  with  me,  I  guess  that  she  has 
some  offer  to  your  worldly  advantage  to  propose  to  jou.  Ha! 
by  the  way,  a  thought  strikes  me." 

Lumley  eagerly  rang  the  bell.  "Is  Lady  Florence's  ser- 
vant waiting  for  an  answer?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Very  well;  detain  him." 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  355 

"Now,  Cesarini,  assurance  is  made  doubly  sure.  Come 
into  the  next  room.  There,  sit  down  at  my  desk,  and  write, 
as  I  shall  dictate,  to  Maltravers." 

"  I ! " 

"Yes.  'Now  do  put  yourself  in  my  hands, —  write,  write. 
"When  you  have  finished,  I  will  explain." 

Cesarini  obeyed,  and  the  letter  was  as  follows :  — 

Dear  Maltravers,  —  I  have  learned  your  approaching  marriage 
with  Lady  Florence  Lascelles.  Permit  me  to  congratulate  you.  For 
myself,  I  have  overcome  a  vain  and  foolish  passion,  and  can  contemplate 
your  happiness  without  a  sigh. 

I  have  reviewed  all  my  old  prejudices  against  marriage,  and  believe  it 
to  be  a  state  which  nothing  but  the  most  perfect  congeniality  of  temper, 
pursuits,  and  minds  can  render  bearal)le.  How  rare  is  such  congeniality  1 
In  your  case  it  may  exist.  The  affections  of  that  beautiful  being  are 
doubtless  ardent,  and  they  are  yours ! 

Write  me  a  line  by  the  bearer  to  assure  me  of  your  belief  in  my 

sincerity.  Yours, 

C.  Cesarini. 

"Copy  out  this  letter, —  I  want  its  ditto;  quick.  Xow,  seal 
and  direct  the  duplicate,"  continued  Ferrers;  "that's  right. 
Go  into  the  hall,  give  it  yourself  to  Lady  Florence's  servant, 
and  beg  him  to  take  it  to  Seamore  Place,  wait  for  an  answer, 
and  bring  it  here;  by  which  time  you  will  have  a  note  ready 
for  Lady  Florence;  Say  I  will  mention  this  to  her  ladyship, 
and  give  the  man  half-a-crown.     There,  begone." 

"  I  do  not  understand  a  word  of  this, "  said  Cesarini,  when 
he  returned;  "will  you  explain?  " 

"  Certainly ;  the  copy  of  the  note  you  have  despatched  to 
Maltravers  I  shall  show  to  Lady  Florence  this  evening  as  a 
proof  of  your  sobered  and  generous  feelings.  Observe,  it  is 
so  written  that  the  old  letter  of  your  rival  may  seem  an  exact 
reply  to  it.  To-morrow  a  reference  to  this  note  of  yours  will 
bring  out  our  scheme  more  easily;  and  if  you  follow  my  in- 
structions, you  will  not  seem  to  vohmteer  showing  our  handi- 
work, as  we  at  first  intended,  but  rather  to  yield  it  to  her  eyes 
from  a  generous  impulse,  from  an  irresistible  desire  to  save 
her  from  an  unwortliy  husband  and  a  wretched  fate.     Fortune 


356  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

has  been  dealing  our  cards  for  us,  and  lias  turned  up  the  ace. 
Three  to  one  now  on  the  odd  trick.  Maltravers,  too,  is  at 
home.  I  called  at  his  house,  on  returning  from  my  uncle's, 
and  learned  that  he  would  not  stir  out  all  the  evening." 

In  due  time  came  the  answer  from  Ernest.  It  was  Short 
and  hurried,  but  full  of  all  the  manly  kindness  of  his  nature ; 
it  expressed  admiration  and  delight  at  the  tone  of  Cesarini's 
letter;  it  revoked  all  former  expressions  derogatory  to  Lady 
Florence;  it  owned  the  harshness  and  error  of  his  first  im- 
pressions; it  used  every  delicate  argument  that  could  soothe 
and  reconcile  Cesarini;  and  concluded  by  sentiments  of 
friendship  and  desire  of  service  so  cordial,  so  honest,  so  free 
from  the  affectation  of  patronage  that  even  Cesarini  himself, 
half  insane  as  he  was  with  passion,  was  almost  softened. 
Lumley  saw  the  change  in  his  countenance,  snatched  the 
letter  from  his  hand,  read  it,  threw  it  into  the  fire,  and 
saying,  "We  must  guard  against  accidents,"  clapped  the 
Italian  affectionately  on  the  shoulder  and  added :  "  Xow  you 
can  have  no  remorse ;  for  a  more  Jesuitical  piece  of  insult- 
ing, hypocritical  cant  I  never  read.  Where  's  your  note  to 
Lady  Florence?  Your  compliments,  you  will  be  with  her  at 
two.  There,  now  the  rehearsal's  over,  the  scenes  arranged, 
and  I  '11  dress,  and  open  the  play  for  you  with  a  prologue." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

iEsTUAT  ingens 
Imo  iu  corde  pudor,  mixtoque  insania  luctu, 
Et  furiis  agitatus  amor,  et  conscia  virtus.^  —  Virgil. 

The  next  day,  punctual  to  his  appointment,  Cesarini  re- 
paired to  his  critical  interview  with  Lady  Florence.  Her 
countenance,  which,  like  that  of  most  persons  whose  temper 
is  not  under  their  command,  ever  too  faithfully  expressed 

1  "Deep  in  her  inmost  heart  is  stirred  the  immense  shame,  and  madness 
with  commingled  grief,  and  love  agitated  by  rage,  and  conscious  virtue." 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  357 

what  was  witliin,  was  unusually  flushed.  Lumley  had 
dropped  words  and  hints  which  had  driven  sleep  from  her 
pillow  and  repose  from  her  mind. 

She  rose  from  her  seat  with  nervous  agitation  as  Cesarini 
entered  and  made  his  grave  salutation.  After  a  short  and 
embarrassed  pause,  she  recovered,  however,  her  self-posses- 
sion, and  with  all  a  woman's  delicate  and  dexterous  tact 
urged  upon  the  Italian  the  expediency  of  accepting  the  offer 
of  honourable  independence  now  extended  to  him. 

"You  have  abilities,"  she  said,  in  conclusion,  "you  have 
friends,  you  have  youth;  take  advantage  of  those  gifts  of 
nature  and  fortune,  and  fultil  such  a  career  as,"  added  Lady 
Florence,  with  a  smile,  "Dante  did  not  consider  incompati- 
ble with  poetry." 

"I  cannot  object  to  any  career,"  said  Cesarini,  with  an 
effort,  "  that  may  serve  to  remove  me  from  a  country  that  has 
no  longer  any  charms  for  me.  I  thank  you  for  your  kind- 
ness ;  I  will  obey  you.  May  you  be  happy !  And  yet  —  no, 
ah !  no  —  happy  you  must  be !  Even  he,  sooner  or  later,  must 
see  you  with  my  eyes." 

"I  know,"  replied  Florence,  falteringly,  "that  you  have 
wisely  and  generously  mastered  a  past  illusion.  Mr.  Ferrers 
allowed  me  to  see  the  letter  you  wrote  to  Er —  to  Mr.  Mal- 
travers;  it  was  worthy  of  you;  it  touched  me  deeply.  But  I 
trust  you  will  outlive  your  prejudices  against  —  " 

"Stay,"  interrupted  Cesarini;  "did  Ferrers  communicate 
to  you  the  answer  to  that  letter?  " 

"No,  indeed." 

"I  am  glad  of  it." 

"Why?" 

" Oh,  no  matter.     Heaven  bless  you!     Farewell." 

"No,  I  implore  you,  do  not  go  yet.  What  was  there  in 
that  letter  that  it  could  pain  me  to  see?  Lumley  hinted 
darkly,  but  would  not  speak  out;  be  more  frank." 

"  I  cannot ;  it  would  be  treachery  to  Maltravers,  cruelty  to 
you.     Yet  would  it  be  cruel?  " 

"No,  it  would  not;  it  would  be  kindness  and  mercy.  Show 
me  the  letter, —  you  have  it  with  you." 


358  ERNEST  MALTR AVERS. 

"  You  could  not  bear  it ;  you  would  hate  me  for  the  pain  it 
would  give  you.     Let  me  depart." 

"  Man,  you  wrong  Maltravers.  I  see  it  now.  You  would 
darkly  slander  him  whom  you  cannot  openly  defame.  Go;  I 
was  wrong  to  listen  to  you, —  go  I  " 

"  Lady  Florence,  beware  how  you  taunt  me  into  undeceiving 
you.  Here  is  the  letter,  —  it  is  his  handwriting :  will  you 
read  it?     I  warn  you  not." 

"I  will  believe  nothing  but  the  evidence  of  my  own  eyes; 
give  it  me." 

"Stay,  then, —  on  two  conditions.  First,  that  you  promise 
me  sacredly  that  you  will  not  disclose  to  Maltravers,  without 
my  consent,  that  you  have  seen  this  letter.  Think  not  I  fear 
his  anger.  Xo ;  but  in  the  mortal  encounter  that  must  ensue, 
if  you  thus  betray  me,  your  character  would  be  lowered  in 
the  world's  eyes,  and  even  I  (my  excuse  unknown)  might  not 
appear  to  have  acted  with  honour  in  obeying  your  desire  and 
warning  you,  while  there  is  yet  time,  of  bartering  love  for 
avarice.     Promise  me." 

"I  do,  I  do  most  solemnly." 

"Secondly,  assure  me  that  you  will  not  ask  to  keep  the 
letter,  but  will  immediately  restore  it  to  me." 

"I  promise  it.     oSTow  then." 

"Take  the  letter." 

Florence  seized  and  rapidly  read  the  fatal  and  garbled 
document.  Her  brain  was  dizzy,  her  eyes  clouded,  her  ears 
rang  as  with  the  sound  of  water,  she  was  sick  and  giddy  with 
emotion;  but  she  read  enough.  This  letter  was  written, 
then,  in  answer  to  Castruccio's  of  last  night;  it  avowed  dis- 
like of  her  character;  it  denied  the  sincerity  of  her  love;  it 
more  than  hinted  the  mercenary  nature  of  his  own  feelings. 
Yes,  even  there,  where  she  had  garnered  up  her  heart,  she 
was  not  Florence  the  lovely  and  beloved  woman,  but  Florence 
the  wealthy  and  high-born  heiress.  The  world  which  she  had 
built  upon  the  faith  and  heart  of  Maltravers  crumbled  away 
at  her  feet.  The  letter  dropped  from  her  hands;  her  whole 
form  seemed  to  shrink  and  shrivel  up;  her  teeth  were  set, 
and  her  cheek  was  as  white  as  marble. 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  359 

"0  God!  "  cried  Cesarini,  stung  with  remorse.  "Speak  to 
me,  speak  to  me,  Florence !  I  did  wrong ;  forget  tliat  hateful 
letter!     I  have  been  false,  false!  " 

"Ah,  false  —  say  so  again.  No,  no,  I  remember  he  told  me 
—  he,  so  wise,  so  deep  a  judge  of  human  character  that  he 
would  be  sponsor  for  your  faith  —  that  your  honour  and  heart 
were  incorruptible.  It  is  true;  I  thank  you,  —  you  have  saved 
me  from  a  terrible  fate." 

"  Oh,  Lady  Florence,  dear  —  too  dear  —  yet,  would  that  — 
Alas!  she  does  not  listen  to  me,"  muttered  Castruccio,  as 
Florence,  pressing  her  hands  to  her  temples,  walked  wildly 
to  and  fro  the  room.  At  length  she  paused  opposite  to 
Cesarini,  looked  him  full  in  the  face,  returned  him  the  letter 
without  a  word,  and  pointed  to  the  door. 

"No,  no,  do  not  bid  me  leave  you  yet,"  said  Cesarini, 
trembling  with  repentant  emotion,  yet  half  beside  himself 
with  jealous  rage  at  her  love  for  his  rival. 

"My  friend,  go,"  said  Florence,  in  a  tone  of  voice  singu- 
larly subdued  and  soft.  "Do  not  fear  me;  I  have  more 
pride  in  me  than  even  affection :  but  there  are  certain  struggles 
in  a  woman's  breast  which  she  could  never  betray  to  any 
one, —  any  one  but  a  mother.  God  help  me,  I  have  none! 
Go;  when  next  we  meet,  I  shall  be  calm." 

She  held  out  her  hand  as  she  spoke ;  the  Italian  dropped 
on  his  knee,  kissed  it  convulsively,  and  fearful  of  trusting 
himself  further,  vanished  from  the  room. 

He  had  not  been  long  gone  before  Maltravers  was  seen 
riding  through  the  street.  As  he  threw  himself  from  his 
horse,  he  looked  up  at  the  window  and  kissed  his  hand  at 
Lady  Florence,  who  stood  there  watching  his  arrival  with 
feelings  indeed  far  different  from  those  he  anticipated.  He 
entered  the  room  lightly  and  gayly. 

Florence  stirred  not  to  welcome  him.  He  approached  and 
took  her  hand;    she  withdrew  it  with  a  shudder. 

"Are  you  not  well,  Florence?  " 

"I  am  well,  for  I  have  recovered." 

"What  do  you  mean?     Why  do  you  turn  from  me?  " 

Lady  Florence  fixed  her  eyes  on  him, —  eyes  that  literally 
blazed;  her  lip  quivered  with  scorn. 


360  EKNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

''  Mr.  Maltravers,  at  length  I  know  you.  I  understand  the 
feelings  with  which  you  have  sought  a  union  between  us. 
0  God!  why,  why  was  I  thus  cursed  with  riches;  why  made 
a  thing  of  barter  and  merchandise  and  avarice  and  low  ambi- 
tion? Take  my  wealth,  take  it,  Mr.  Maltravers,  since  that  is 
what  you  prize.  Heaven  knows  I  can  cast  it  willingly  away; 
but  leave  the  wretch  whom  you  long  deceived,  and  who  now, 
wretch  though  she  be,  renounces  and  despises  you!  " 

"Lady  Florence,  do  I  hear  aright?  Who  has  accused  me 
to  you?  " 

"None,  sir,  none;  I  would  have  believed  none.  Let  it 
suffice  that  I  am  convinced  that  our  union  can  be  happy  to 
neither.  Question  me  no  further;  all  intercourse  between  us 
is  forever  over !  " 

"Pause,"  said  Maltravers,  with  cold  and  grave  solemnity; 
"another  word,  and  the  gulf  will  become  impassable.    Pause!  " 

"  Do  not, "  exclaimed  the  unhappy  lady,  stung  by  what  she 
considered  the  assurance  of  a  hardened  hypocrisy, —  "do  not 
affect  this  haughty  superiority;  it  dupes  me  no  longer.  I 
was  your  slave  while  I  loved  you:  the  tie  is  broken.  I  am 
free,  and  I  hate  and  scorn  you!  Mercenary  and  sordid  as 
you  are,  your  baseness  of  spirit  revives  the  differences  of  our 
rank.  Henceforth,  Mr.  Maltravers,  I  am  Lady  Florence 
Lascelles,  and  by  that  title  alone  will  you  know  me.  Be- 
gone, sir!  " 

As  she  spoke,  with  passion  distorting  every  feature  of  her 
face,  all  her  beauty  vanished  away  from  the  eyes  of  the  proud 
Maltravers  as  if  by  witchcraft, —  the  angel  seemed  trans- 
formed into  the  fury ;  and  cold,  bitter,  and  withering  was  the 
eye  which  he  fixed  upon  that  altered  countenance. 

"Mark  me,  Lady  Florence  Lascelles,"  said  he,  very  calmly, 
"  you  have  now  said  what  you  can  never  recall.  Neither  in 
man  nor  in  woman  did  Ernest  Maltravers  ever  forget  or  for- 
give a  sentence  which  accused  him  of  dishonour.  I  bid  you 
farewell  forever;  and  with  my  last  words  I  condemn  you  to 
the  darkest  of  all  dooms, —  the  remorse  that  comes  too  late!  " 
Slowly  he  moved  away;  and  as  the  door  closed  upon  that 
towering  and  haughty  form,  Florence  already  felt  that  his 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  361 

curse  was  working  to  its  fulfilment.  She  rushed  to  the  win- 
dow, she  caught  one  last  glimpse  of  him  as  his  horse  bore 
him  rapidly  away.     Ah !  when  shall  they  meet  again? 


CHAPTER   IX. 

And  now  I  live.     Oh,  wherefore  do  I  live  ? 

And  with  that  pang  I  prayed  to  be  no  more.  —  Wordsworth. 

It  was  about  nine  o'clock  that  evening,  and  Maltravers 
was  alone  in  his  room.  His  carriage  was  at  the  door,  his 
servants  were  arranging  the  luggage ;  he  was  going  that  night 
to  Burleigh.  London,  society,  the  world,  were  grown  hateful 
to  him;  his  galled  and  indignant  spirit  demanded  solitude. 
At  this  time  Lumley  Ferrers  entered. 

"You  will  pardon  my  intrusion,"  said  the  latter,  with  his 
usual  frankness,  "  but  —  " 

^'But  what,  sir?     I  am  engaged." 

"  I  shall  be  very  brief.  Maltravers,  you  are  my  old  friend. 
I  retain  regard  and  affection  for  you,  though  our  different 
habits  have  of  late  estranged  us.  I  come  to  you  from  my 
cousin, —  from  Florence;  there  has  been  some  misunderstand- 
ing between  you.  I  called  on  her  to-day  after  you  left  the 
hoiise.  Her  grief  affected  me.  I  have  only  just  quitted  her. 
She  has  been  told  by  some  gossip  or  other  some  story  or 
other, —  women  are  credulous,  foolish  creatures;  undeceive 
her,  and  I  dare  say  all  may  be  settled." 

"  Ferrers,  if  a  man  had  spoken  to  me  as  Lady  Florence  did, 
his  blood  or  mine  must  have  flowed.  And  do  you  think  that 
words  that  might  have  plunged  me  into  the  guilt  of  homicide 
if  uttered  by  a  man,  I  could  ever  pardon  in  one  whom  I  had 
dreamed  of  for  a  wife?    Never!  " 

"Pooh,  pooh,  women's  words  are  wind.  Don't  throw  away 
so  splendid  a  match  for  such  a  trifle." 


362  ERXEST  MALTRAVERS. 

"Do  you  too,  sir,  mean  to  impute  mercenary  motives  to 
me?" 

"  Heaven  forbid !  You  know  I  am  no  coward,  but  I  really 
don't  want  to  fight  you.     Come,  be  reasonable." 

"I  dare  say  you  mean  well,  but  the  breach  is  final, —  all  re- 
currence to  it  is  painful  and  superfluous.  I  must  wish  you 
good  evening." 

"You  have  positively  decided?" 

"I  have." 

"Even  if  Lady  Florence  made  the  amende  honorable  ?  " 

"  jSTotliing  on  the  part  of  Lady  Florence  could  alter  my  reso- 
lution. The  woman  whom  an  honourable  man,  an  English 
gentleman,  makes  the  partner  of  his  life,  ought  never  to 
listen  to  a  syllable  against  his  fair  name.  His  honour  is 
hers;  and  if  her  lips,  that  should  breathe  comfort  in  calumny, 
only  serve  to  retail  the  lie,  she  may  be  beautiful,  gifted, 
wealthy,  and  high-born,  but  he  takes  a  curse  to  his  arms. 
That  curse  I  have  escaped." 

"And  this  I  am  to  say  to  my  cousin?  " 

"As  you  will.  And  now  stay,  Lumley  Ferrers,  and  hear 
me.  I  neither  accuse  nor  suspect  you;  I  desire  not  to  pierce 
your  heart,  and  in  this  case  I  cannot  fathom  your  motives: 
but  if  it  should  so  have  happened  that  you  have  in  any  way 
ministered  to  Lady  Florence  Lascelles  injurious  opinions  of 
my  faith  and  honour,  you  will  have  much  to  answer  for,  and 
sooner  or  later  there  will  come  a  day  of  reckoning  between 
you  and  me." 

"  Mr.  Maltravers,  there  can  be  no  quarrel  between  us,  with 
my  cousin's  fair  name  at  stake,  or  else  we  should  not  now 
part  without  preparations  for  a  more  hostile  meeting.  I  can 
bear  your  language.  I,  too,  though  no  philosopher,  can  for- 
give. Come,  man,  you  are  heated, —  it  is  very  natural;  let 
us  part  friends.     Your  hand." 

"  If  you  can  take  my  hand,  Lumley,  you  are  innocent,  and 
I  have  wronged  you." 

Lumley  smiled,  and  cordially  pressed  the  hand  of  his  old 
friend. 

As  he  descended  the  stairs  Maltravers  followed,  and  just 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  363 

as  Lumley  turned  into  Curzon  Street,  the  carriage  whirled 
rapidly  past  him,  and  by  the  lamps  he  saw  the  pale  and  stern 
face  of  Maltravers. 

It  was  a  slow,  drizzling  rain, —  one  of  those  unwholesome 
nights  frequent  in  London  towards  the  end  of  autumn.  Fer- 
rers, however,  insensible  to  the  weather,  walked  slowly  and 
thoughtfully  towards  his  cousin's  house.  He  was  playing  for 
a  mighty  stake,  and  hitherto  the  cast  was  in  his  favour;  yet 
he  was  uneasy  and  perturbed.  His  conscience  was  tolerably 
proof  to  all  compunction,  as  much  from  the  levity  as  from 
the  strength  of  his  nature;  and,  Maltravers  removed,  he 
trusted  in  his  knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  and  the  smooth 
speciousness  of  his  manner,  to  win  at  last,  in  the  hand  of 
Lady  Florence,  the  object  of  his  ambition.  It  was  not  on 
her  affection,  it  was  on  her  pique,  her  resentment,  that  he 
relied.  "  When  a  woman  fancies  herself  slighted  by  the  man 
she  loves,  the  first  person  who  proposes  must  be  a  clumsy 
wooer  indeed  if  he  does  not  carry  her  away."  So  reasoned 
Ferrers,  but  yet  he  was  ruffled  and  disquieted.  The  truth 
must  be  spoken, —  able,  bold,  sanguine,  and  scornful  as  he 
was,  his  spirit  quailed  before  that  of  Maltravers;  he  feared 
the  lion  of  that  nature  when  fairly  aroused.  His  own  char- 
acter had  in  it  something  of  a  woman's, —  an  unprincipled, 
gifted,  aspiring,  and  subtle  woman's;  and  in  Maltravers  — 
stern,  simple,  and  masculine  —  he  recognized  the  superior 
dignity  of  the  "lords  of  the  creation."  He  was  overawed  by 
the  anticipation  of  a  wrath  and  revenge  which  he  felt  he 
merited,  and  which  he  feared  might  be  deadly. 

While  gradually,  however,  his  spirit  recovered  its  usual 
elasticity,  he  came  in  the  vicinity  of  Lord  Saxingham's  house, 
and  suddenly,  by  a  corner  of  the  street,  his  arm  was  seized; 
to  his  inexpressible  astonishment  he  recognized  in  the  muffled 
figure  that  accosted  him  the  form  of  Florence  Lascelles. 

"Good  heavens,"  he  cried,  "is  it  possible?  You,  alone  in 
the  streets  at  this  hour,  in  such  a  night,  too?  How  very 
wrong;  how  very  imprudent!  " 

"Do  not  talk  to  me;  I  am  almost  mad  as  it  is.  I  could  not 
rest;  I  could  npt  brave  quiet,  solitude,  still  less  the  face  of 


364  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

my  father, —  I  could  not!  But  quick,  what  says  he?  What 
excuse  has  he?  Tell  me  everything;  I  will  cling  to  a 
straw." 

•'And  is  this  the  proud  Florence  Lascelles?  " 

"No,  it  is  the  humbled  Florence  Lascelles.  I  have  done 
with  pride, —  speak  to  me!" 

"  Ah,  what  a  treasure  is  such  a  heart !  How  can  he  throw 
it  away?" 

"Does  he  deny?  " 

"He  denies  nothing;  he  expresses  himself  rejoiced  to  have 
escaped  —  such  was  his  expression  —  a  marriage  in  which  his 
heart  never  was  engaged.  He  is  unworthy  of  you;  forget 
him," 

Florence  shivered,  and  as  Ferrers  drew  her  arm  in  his  own, 
her  ungloved  hand  touched  his,  and  the  touch  was  like  that 
of  ice. 

"What  will  the  servants  think?  What  excuse  can  we 
make?  "  said  Ferrers,  when  they  stood  beneath  the  porch. 

Florence  did  not  reply;  but  as  the  door  opened,  she  said 
softly, — 

"I  am  ill,  ill,"  and  clung  to  Ferrers  with  that  unnerved 
and  heavy  weight  which  betokens  faintness. 

The  light  glared  on  her,  the  faces  of  the  lackeys  betokened 
their  undisguised  astonishment.  With  a  violent  effort  Flor- 
ence recovered  herself,  for  she  had  not  yet  done  with  pride, 
swept  through  the  hall  with  her  usual  stately  step,  slowly 
ascended  the  broad  staircase,  and  gained  the  solitude  of  her 
own  room,  to  fall  senseless  on  the  floor. 


BOOK    IX. 


'AxfpovTi  wfi(pe6(r(i>.  —  Sophocles  :  Antigone. 
"  I  go,  the  bride  of  Acheron." 

MeAAoj'Ta  TapTo.  —  Ibid,  1333. 
"  These  things  are  in  the  future." 


CHAPTEK  I. 

There  the  action  lies 
In  his  tnie  nature     .     .     . 
.     .     .     What  then  ?     What  rests  ? 
Try  what  repentance  can.  —  Hamlet. 

I  doubt  he  will  be  dead  or  ere  I  come.  — King  John. 

It  was  a  fine  afternoon  in  December  when  Lumley  Ferrers 
turned  from  Lord  Saxingham's  door.  The  knockers  were 
muffled,  the  windows  on  the  third  story  were  partially  closed. 
There  was  sickness  in  that  house. 

Lumley's  face  was  unusually  grave;  it  was  even  sad.  "So 
young,  so  beautiful,"  he  muttered.  "If  ever  I  loved  woman, 
I  do  believe  I  loved  her;  that  love  must  be  my  excuse.  I 
repent  of  what  I  have  done;  but  I  could  not  foresee  that  a 
mere  lover's  stratagem  was  to  end  in  such  effects.  The  meta- 
physician was  very  right  when  he  said,  *  We  only  sympathize 
with  feelings  we  know  ourselves.'  A  little  disappointment 
in  love  could  not  have  hurt  me  much;  it  is  d — d  odd  it  should 
hurt  her  so.  I  am  altogether  out  of  luck;  old  Templeton  — 
I  beg  his  pardon,  Lord  Vargrave  (by  the  by  he  gets  heartier 
every  day;  what  a  constitution  he  has!)  — seems  cross  with 


366  ERXEST  MALTRAVERS. 

me.  He  did  not  like  the  idea  tliat  I  should  marry  Lady 
Florence;  and  when  I  thought  that  vision  might  have  been 
realized,  hinted  that  I  was  disappointing  some  expectations 
he  had  formed, —  I  can't  make  out  what  he  means.  Then, 
too,  the  Government  have  offered  that  place  to  Maltravers 
instead  of  to  me.  In  fact,  my  star  is  not  in  the  ascendant. 
Poor  Florence,  though,  I  would  really  give  a  great  deal  to 
know  her  restored  to  health!  I  have  done  a  villanous  thing, 
but  I  thought  it  only  a  clever  one.  However,  regret  is  a 
fool's  passion.  By  Jupiter!  talking  of  fools,  here  comes 
Cesarini." 

Wan,  haggard,  almost  spectral,  his  hat  over  his  brows,  his 
dress  neglected,  his  air  reckless  and  fierce,  Cesarini  crossed 
the  way,  and  thus  accosted  Lumley :  — 

"  We  have  murdered  her,  Ferrers ;  and  her  ghost  will  haunt 
us  to  our  dying  day  1  " 

"Talk  prose;  you  know  I  am  no  poet.  What  do  you 
mean?  " 

"She  is  worse  to-day,"  groaned  Cesarini,  in  a  hollow  voice. 
"I  wander  like  a  lost  spirit  round  the  house;  I  question  all 
who  come  from  it.     Tell  me,  oh,  tell  me,  is  there  hope?  " 

"I  do  indeed  trust  so,"  replied  Ferrers,  fervently.  "The 
illness  has  only  of  late  assumed  an  alarming  appearance.  At 
first  it  was  merely  a  severe  cold,  caught  by  imprudent  ex- 
posure one  rainy  night.  Now  they  fear  it  has  settled  on  the 
lungs;  but  if  we  could  get  her  abroad,  all  might  be  well." 

"You  think  so,  honestly?  " 

"I  do.  Courage,  my  friend;  do  not  reproach  yourself:  it 
has  nothing  to  do  with  us.  She  was  taken  ill  of  a  cold,  not 
of  a  letter,  man !  " 

"Xo,  no;  I  judge  her  heart  by  my  own.  Oh  that  I  could 
recall  the  past !  Look  at  me ;  I  am  the  wreck  of  what  I  was ; 
day  and  night  the  recollection  of  my  falsehood  haunts  me 
with  remorse." 

"Pshaw!  we  will  go  to  Italy  together,  and  in  your  beau- 
tiful land  love  will  replace  love." 

"I  am  half  resolved,  Ferrers." 

"Ha!— to  do  what?" 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  367 

"To  write, —  to  reveal  all  to  her," 

The  hardy  complexion  of  Ferrers  grew  livid ;  his  brow  be- 
came dark  with  a  terrible  expression. 

"Do  so, —  and  fall  the  next  day  by  my  hand;  my  aim  in 
slighter  quarrel  never  erred." 

"Do  you  dare  to  threaten  me?  " 

"Do  you  dare  to  betray  me?  Betray  one  who,  if  he  sinned, 
sinned  on  your  account,  in  your  cause ;  who  would  have  se- 
cured to  you  the  loveliest  bride  and  the  most  princely  dower 
in  England;  and  whose  only  offence  against  you  is  that  he 
cannot  command  life  and  health?  " 

"Forgive  me,"  said  the  Italian,  with  great  emotion, — "for- 
give me,  and  do  not  misunderstand;  I  would  not  have  be- 
trayed 3/0  ?r, —  there  is  honour  among  villains.  I  would  have 
confessed  only  my  own  crime ;  I  would  never  have  revealed 
yours, —  why  should  I?     It  is  unnecessary." 

"Are  you  in  earnest,  are  you  sincere?" 

"  By  my  soul !  " 

"Then,  indeed,  you  are  worthy  oE  my  friendship.  You 
will  assume  the  whole  forgery  —  an  ugly  word,  but  it  avoids 
circumlocution  —  to  be  your  own?" 

"I  will." 

Ferrers  paused  a  moment,  and  then  stopped  suddenly 
short. 

"You  will  swear  this!  " 

"By  all  that  is  holy." 

"  Then  mark  me,  Cesarini ;  if  to-morrow  Lady  Florence  be 
worse,  I  will  throw  no  obstacle  in  the  way  of  your  confes- 
sion, should  you  resolve  to  make  it, —  I  will  even  use  that 
influence  which  you  leave  me,  to  palliate  your  offence,  to 
win  your  pardon.  And  yet  to  resign  your  hopes,  to  surrender 
one  so  loved  to  the  arms  of  one  so  hated, —  it  is  magnani- 
mous, it  is  noble, —  it  is  above  my  standard!  Do  as  you 
will." 

Cesarini  was  about  to  reply,  when  a  servant  on  liorscback 
abruptly  turned  the  corner,  almost  at  full  speed.  He  pulled 
in;  his  eye  fell  upon  Lumley;  he  dismounted. 

"Oh,  Mr.   Ferrers,"  said  the  man,  breathlessly,   "I  have 


368  ERNEST   MALTR AVERS. 

been  to  your  house ;  the}'  told  me  I  might  find  you  at  Lord 
Saxingham's.     I  was  just  going  there  —  " 

"Well,  well,  what  is  the  matter?  " 

"My  poor  master,  sir, —  my  lord,  I  mean  —  " 

"What  of  him?" 

"Had  a  fit,  sir;  the  doctors  are  with  him.  My  mistress  — 
for  my  lord  can't  speak  —  sent  me  express  for  you." 

"Lend  me  your  horse.    There,  just  lengthen  the  stirrups." 

While  the  groom  was  engaged  at  the  saddle,  Ferrers  turned 
to  Cesarini.  "Do  nothing  rashly,"  said  he, —  "I  would  say, 
if  I  might,  nothing  at  all,  without  consulting  me;  but  mind, 
I  rely  at  all  events  on  your  promise,  your  oath." 

"You  may,"  said  Cesarini,  gloomily. 

"Farewell,  then,"  said  Lumley,  as  he  mounted;  and  in  a 
few  moments  he  was  out  of  sight. 


CHAPTEE  II. 

0  WORLD  !  thou  wast  the  forest  to  this  hart ; 
Dost  thou  here  lie  1  — Julius  Ccesar. 

As  Lumley  leaped  from  his  horse  at  his  uncle's  door,  the 
disorder  and  bustle  of  those  demesnes,  in  which  the  severe 
eye  of  the  master  usually  preserved  a  repose  and  silence  as 
complete  as  if  the  affairs  of  life  were  carried  on  by  clock- 
work, struck  upon  him  sensibly.  Upon  the  trim  lawn  the 
old  women  employed  in  cleaning  and  weeding  the  walks  were 
all  assembled  in  a  cluster,  shaking  their  heads  ominously  in 
concert,  and  carrying  on  their  comments  in  a  confused  whis- 
per. In  the  hall  the  housemaid  (and  it  was  the  first  house- 
maid whom  Lumley  had  ever  seen  in  that  house,  so  invisibly 
were  the  wheels  of  the  domestic  machine  carried  on)  was 
leaning  on  her  broom,  "  swallowing  with  open  mouth  a  foot- 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  369 

man's  news."  It  was  as  if,  with  the  first  slackening  of  the 
rigid  rein,  human  nature  broke  loose  from  tlie  conventual 
stillness  in  which  it  had  ever  paced  its  peaceful  path  in  that 
formal  mansion. 

"How  is  he?" 

"My  lord  is  better,  sir;  he  has  spoken,  I  believe." 

At  this  moment  a  young  face,  swollen  and  red  with  weep- 
ing, looked  down  from  the  stairs;  and  presently  Evelyn 
rushed  breathlessly  into  the  hall. 

"Oh,  come  up,  come  up.  Cousin  Lumley;  he  cannot,  cannot 
die  in  your  presence, —  you  always  seem  so  full  of  life!  He 
cannot  die;  you  do  not  think  he  will  die?  Oh,  take  me  with 
you;  they  won't  let  me  go  to  him!  " 

"Hush,  my  dear  little  girl,  hush.  Follow  me  lightly, — 
that  is  right." 

Lumley  reached  the  door,  tapped  gently,  entered;  and  the 
child  also  stole  in  unobserved,  or  at  least  unprevented.  Lum- 
ley drew  aside  the  curtains;  the  new  lord  was  lying  on  his 
bed,  with  his  head  propped  by  pillows,  his  eyes  wide  open, 
with  a  glassy,  but  not  insensible  stare,  and  his  countenance 
fearfully  changed. 

Lady  Vargrave  was  kneeling  on  the  other  side  of  the  bed, 
one  hand  clasped  in  her  husband's,  the  other  bathing  his 
temples,  and  her  tears  falling,  without  sob  or  sound,  fast  and 
copiously  down  her  pale  fair  cheeks. 

Two  doctors  were  conferring  in  the  recess  of  the  window, 
an  apothecary  was  mixing  drugs  at  a  table,  and  two  of  the 
oldest  female  servants  of  the  house  were  standing  near  the 
physicians,  trying  to  overhear  what  was  said. 

"My  dear,  dear  uncle,  how  are  you?"  asked  Lumley. 

"Ah,  you  are  come,  then,"  said  the  dying  man,  in  a  feeble 
yet  distinct  voice;  "that  is  well, —  I  have  much  to  say  to 
you." 

"But  not  now,  not  now;  you  are  not  strong  enough,"  said 
the  wife,  imploringly. 

The  doctors  moved  to  the  bedside.  Lord  Vargrave  waved 
his  hand  and  raised  his  head. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  he,  "I  feel  as  if  death  were  hastening 

24 


370  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

upon  me;  I  have  much  need,  while  my  senses  remain,  to  con- 
fer with  my  nephew.  Is  the  present  a  fitting  time?  If  I 
delay,  are  you  sure  that  I  shall  have  another?  " 

The  doctors  looked  at  each  other. 

"My  lord,"  said  one,  "it  may  perhaps  settle  and  relieve 
your  mind  to  converse  with  your  nephew;  afterwards  you  may 
more  easily  compose  yourself  to  sleep." 

"  Take  this  cordial,  then, "  said  the  other  doctor. 

The  sick  man  obeyed.  One  of  the  physicians  approached 
Lumley  and  beckoned  him  aside. 

"Shall  we  send  for  his  lordship's  lawyer?"  whispered  the 
leech. 

"lam  his  heir-at-law,"  thought  Lumley.  "Why,  7io,  my 
dear  sir,  no,  I  think  not,  unless  he  expresses  a  desire  to  see 
him ;  doubtless  my  poor  uncle  has  already  settled  his  worldly 
affairs.     What  is  his  state?" 

The  doctor  shook  his  head.  "  I  will  speak  to  you,  sir,  after 
you  have  left  his  lordship." 

"What  is  the  matter  there  ?  "  cried  the  patient,  sharply  and 
querulously.  "Clear  the  room;  I  would  be  alone  with  my 
nephew." 

The  doctors  disappeared;  the  old  women  reluctantly  fol- 
lowed; when  suddenly  the  little  Evelyn  sprang  forward  and 
threw  herself  on  the  breast  of  the  dying  man,  sobbing  as  if 
her  heart  would  break. 

"My  poor  child,  my  sweet  child,  my  own,  own  darling!  " 
gasped  out  Lord  Vargrave,  folding  his  weak  arms  round  her. 
"Bless  you,  bless  you!  And  God  tvill  bless  you.  My  wife," 
he  added,  with  a  voice  far  more  tender  than  Lumley  had  ever 
before  heard  him  address  to  Lady  Vargrave,  "  if  these  be  the 
last  words  I  utter  to  you,  let  them  express  all  the  gratitude  I 
feel  for  you,  for  duties  never  more  piously  discharged.  You 
did  not  love  me,  it  is  true;  and  in  health  and  pride  that 
knowledge  often  made  me  unjust  to  you.  I  have  been  severe, 
—  you  have  had  much  to  bear;  forgive  me." 

"Oh!  do  not  talk  thus;  you  have  been  nobler,  kinder  than 
my  deserts.  How  much  I  owe  you,  —  how  little  I  have  done 
in  return!  " 


ERNEST   lAIALTRAVERS.  S71 

"I  cannot  bear  this;  leave  nie,  my  dear,  leave  me.  I  may 
live  yet, —  I  hope  I  may;  I  do  not  want  to  die.  The  cup  may 
pass  from  me.     Go,  go, —  and  you,  my  child." 

"Ah,  let  me  stay." 

Lord  Vargrave  kissed  the  little  creature  as  she  clung  to  his 
neck  with  passionate  affection,  and  then,  placing  her  in  her 
mother's  arms,  fell  back  exhausted  on  his  pillow.  Lumley, 
with  handkerchief  to  his  eyes,  opened  the  door  to  Lady  Var- 
grave, who  sobbed  bitterly,  and  carefully  closing  it,  resumed 
his  station  by  his  uncle. 

When  Lumley  Ferrers  left  the  room,  his  countenance  was 
gloomy  and  excited  rather  than  sad.  He  hurried  to  the  room 
which  he  usually  occupied,  and  remained  there  for  some  hours 
while  his  uncle  slept, —  a  long  and  sound  sleep.  But  the 
mother  and  the  stepchild  (now  restored  to  the  sick-room)  did 
not  desert  their  watch. 

It  wanted  about  an  hour  to  midnight  when  the  senior  phy- 
sician sought  the  nephew. 

"  Your  uncle  asks  for  you,  Mr.  Ferrers ;  and  I  think  it  right 
to  say  that  his  last  moments  approach.  We  have  done  all 
that  can  be  done." 

"Is  he  fully  aware  of  his  danger?  " 

"He  is,  and  has  spent  the  last  two  hours  in  prayer;  it  is  a 
Christian's  death-bed,  sir." 

"Humph!  "  said  Ferrers,  as  he  followed  the  physician. 

The  room  was  darkened,  —  a  single  lamp,  carefully  shaded, 
burned  on  a  table,  on  which  lay  the  Book  of  Life  in  Death ; 
and  with  awe  and  grief  on  their  faces,  the  mother  and  the 
child  were  kneeling  beside  the  bed. 

"Come  here,  Lumley,"  faltered  forth  the  fast-dying  man. 

"There  are  none  but  you  three, —  nearest  and  dearest  to 
me?  That  is  well.  Lumley,  then,  you  know  all, —  my  wife, 
he  knows  all.  My  child,  give  your  hand  to  your  cousin, —  so 
you  are  now  plighted.  When  you  grow  up,  Evelyn,  you  will 
know  that  it  is  my  last  wish  and  prayer  that  you  should  be 
the  wife  of  Lumley  Ferrers.  In  giving  you  this  angel,  Lum- 
ley, I  atone  to  you  for  all  seeming  injustice.  And  to  you, 
my  child,  I  secure  the  rank  and  honours  to  which  I  have 


372  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

painfully  climbed,  and  which.  I  am  forbidden  to  enjoy.  Be 
kind  to  her,  Lumley,  —  you  have  a  good  and  frank  heart ;  let 
it  be  her  shelter;  she  has  never  known  a  harsh  word.  God 
bless  you  all,  and  God  forgive  me!  Pray  for  me.  Lumley, 
to-morrow  you  will  be  Lord  Vargrave,  and  by  and  by  "  —  here 
a  ghastly,  but  exultant  smile  flitted  over  the  speaker's  coun- 
tenance —  "you  will  be  my  Lady  —  Lady  Vargrave.  Lady  — 
so  —  so  —  Lady  Var  —  " 

The  words  died  on  his  trembling  lips;  he  turned  round, 
and  though  he  continued  to  breathe  for  more  than  an  hour, 
Lord  Vargrave  never  uttered  another  syllable. 


CHAPTER   III. 

Hopes  and  fears 
Start  up  alarmed,  and  o'er  life's  narrow  verge 
Look  down —    On  what  ?     A  fathomless  abyss.  — Young. 

Contempt,  farewell,  and  maiden  pride,  adieu  ! 

Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 

The  wound  which  Maltravers  had  received  was  peculiarly 
severe  and  rankling.  It  is  true  that  he  had  never  been  what 
is  called  violently  in  love  with  Florence  Lascelles ;  but  from 
the  moment  in  which  he  had  been  charmed  and  surprised  into 
the  character  of  a  declared  suitor,  it  was  consonant  with  his 
scrupulous  and  loyal  nature  to  view  only  the  bright  side  of 
Florence's  gifts  and  qualities,  and  to  seek  to  enamour  his 
grateful  fancy  with  her  beauty,  her  genius,  and  her  tender- 
ness for  himself.  He  had  thus  forced  and  formed  his 
thoughts  and  hopes  to  centre  all  in  one  object;  and  Florence 
and  the  Future  had  grown  words  which  conveyed  the  same 
meaning  to  his  mind.  Perhaps  he  felt  more  bitterly  her 
sudden  and  stunning  accusations,  couched  as  they  were  in 
language   so  unqualified,   because   they  fell   upon  his  pride 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  373 

rather  than  his  affection,  and  were  not  softened  away  by  the 
thousand  excuses  and  remembrances  wliich  a  passionate  love 
would  have  invented  and  recalled.  It  was  a  deep,  concen- 
trated sense  of  injury  and  insult  that  hardened  and  soured 
his  whole  nature, —  wounded  vanity,  wounded  pride,  and 
wounded  honour. 

And  the  blow,  too,  came  upon  him  at  a  time  when  he  was 
most  dissatisfied  with  all  other  prospects.  He  was  disgusted 
with  the  littleness  of  the  agents  and  springs  of  political  life ; 
he  had  formed  a  weary  contempt  of  the  barrenness  of  literary 
reputation.  At  thirty  years  of  age  he  had  necessarily  out- 
lived the  sanguine  elasticity  of  early  youth,  and  he  had 
already  broken  up  many  of  those  later  toys  in  business  and 
ambition  which  afford  the  rattle  and  the  hobby-horse  to  our 
maturer  manhood.  Always  asking  for  something  too  refined 
and  too  exalted  for  human  life,  every  new  proof  of  unworthi- 
ness  in  men  and  things  saddened  or  revolted  a  mind  still  too 
fastidious  for  that  quiet  contentment  with  the  world  as  it  is 
which  we  must  all  learn  before  we  can  make  our  philosophy 
practical  and  our  genius  as  fertile  of  the  harvest  as  it  may 
be  prodigal  of  the  blossom.  Haughty,  solitary,  and  unsocial, 
the  ordinary  resources  of  mortified  and  disappointed  men 
were  not  for  Ernest  Maltravers.  Rigidly  secluded  in  his 
country  retirement,  he  consumed  the  days  in  moody  wander- 
ings, and  in  the  evenings  he  turned  to  books  with  a  spirit  dis- 
dainful and  fatigued.  So  much  had  he  already  learned,  that 
books  taught  him  little  that  he  did  not  already  know.  And 
the  biographies  of  authors,  those  ghost-like  beings  who  seem 
to  have  had  no  life  but  in  the  shadow  of  their  own  haunting 
and  imperishable  thoughts,  dimmed  the  inspiration  he  might 
have  caught  from  their  pages.  Those  slaves  of  the  Lamp, 
those  Silkworms  of  the  Closet,  how  little  had  they  enjoyed, 
how  little  had  they  lived!  Condemned  to  a  mysterious  fate 
by  the  wholesale  destinies  of  the  world,  they  seemed  born  but 
to  toil  and  to  spin  thoughts  for  the  common  crowd,  and,  their 
task  performed  in  drudgery  and  in  darkness,  to  die  when  no 
further  service  could  be  wrung  from  their  exhaustion.  Xames 
had  they  been  in  life,  and  as  names  they  lived  forever, —  in 


374  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

life  as  in  death,  airy  and  unsubstantial  phantoms.  It  pleased 
Maltravers  at  this  time  to  turn  a  curious  eye  towards  the  ob- 
scure and  half-extinct  philosophies  of  the  ancient  world.  He 
compared  the  Stoics  with  the  Epicureans, —  those  Epicureans 
who  had  given  their  own  version  to  the  simple  and  abstemi- 
ous utilitarianism  of  their  master.  He  asked  which  was  the 
wiser, —  to  sharpen  pain  or  to  deaden  pleasure;  to  bear  all,  or 
to  enjoy  all;  and,  by  a  natural  reaction  which  often  happens 
to  us  in  life,  this  man,  hitherto  so  earnest,  active-spirited, 
and  resolved  on  great  things,  began  to  yearn  for  the  drowsy 
pleasures  of  indolence.  The  Garden  grew  more  tempting  than 
the  Porch.  He  seriously  revolved  the  old  alternative  of  the 
Grecian  demigod, —  might  it  not  be  wiser  to  abandon  the  grave 
pursuits  to  which  he  had  been  addicted,  to  dethrone  the  au- 
gust but  severe  ideal  in  his  heart,  to  cultivate  the  light  loves 
and  voluptuous  trifles  of  the  herd,  and  to  plant  the  brief  space 
of  youth  yet  left  to  him  with  the  myrtle  and  the  rose?  As 
water  flows  over  water,  so  new  schemes  rolled  upon  new  — 
sweeping  away  every  momentary  impression,  and  leaving  the 
surface  facile  equally  to  receive  and  to  forget.  Such  is  the 
common  state  with  men  of  imagination  in  those  crises  of  life 
when  some  great  revolution  of  designs  and  hopes  unsettles 
elements  too  susceptible  of  every  changing  wind.  And  thus 
the  weak  are  destroyed,  while  the  strong  relapse,  after  terri- 
ble but  unknown  convulsions,  into  that  solemn  harmony  and 
order  from  which  destiny  and  God  draw  their  uses  to 
mankind. 

It  was  from  this  irresolute  contest  between  antagonist  prin- 
ciples that  Maltravers  was  aroused  by  the  following  letter 
from  Florence  Lascelles :  — 

"  For  three  days  and  three  sleepless  nights  I  have  debated  with  ray- 
self  whether  or  not  I  ought  to  address  you.  Oh,  Ernest,  were  I  what 
I  was,  in  health,  in  pride,  I  might  fear  that,  generous  as  you  are,  you 
would  misconstrue  my  appeal ;  but  that  is  now  impossible.  Our  union 
never  can  take  place,  and  my  hopes  bound  themselves  to  one  sweet  and 
melancholy  hope,  —  that  you  will  remove  from  my  last  hours  the  cold 
and  dark  shadow  of  your  resentment.  We  have  both  been  cruelly  de- 
ceived and  betrayed.     Three  days  ago  I  discovered  the  perfidy  that  has 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  375 

been  practised  against  us.  And  then,  ah  !  then,  with  all  the  weak  human 
anguish  of  discovering  it  too  late  (^your  curse  is  fulfilled,  Ernest !),  I  had 
at  least  one  moment  of  proud,  of  exquisite  rapture.  Ernest  Maltravers, 
the  hero  of  my  dreams,  stood  pure  and  lofty  as  of  old,  —  a  thing  it  was 
not  unworthy  to  love,  to  mourn,  to  die  for.  A  letter  in  your  handwriting 
had  been  shown  to  me,  garbled  and  altered,  as  it  seems.  But  I  detected 
not  the  imposture,  —  it  was  yourself,  yourself  alone,  brought  in  false  and 
horrible  witness  against  yourself  !  And  could  you  think  that  any  other 
evidence,  the  words  and  oaths  of  others,  would  have  convicted  you  in 
my  eyes  ?  There  you  wronged  me.  But  I  deserved  it,  —  I  had  bound 
myself  to  secrecy  ;  the  seal  is  taken  from  my  lips  in  order  to  be  set  upon 
my  tomb.  Ernest,  beloved  Ernest,  —  beloved  till  the  last  breath  is  ex- 
tinct, till  the  last  throb  of  this  heart  is  stilled,  —  write  me  one  word  of 
comfort  and  of  pardon.  You  will  believe  what  I  have  imperfectly  writ- 
ten, for  you  ever  trusted  my  faith,  if  you  have  blamed  my  faults.  I  am 
now  comparatively  happy,  —  a  word  from  you  will  make  me  blessed. 
And  Fate  has  perhaps  been  more  merciful  to  both  than  in  our  short- 
sighted and  querulous  human  vision  we  might,  perhaps,  believe  ;  for  now 
that  the  frame  is  brought  low,  —  and  in  the  solitude  of  my  chamber  I 
can  duly  and  humbly  commune  with  mine  own  heart,  —  I  see  the  aspect 
of  those  faults  which  I  once  mistook  for  virtues,  and  feel  that  had  we 
been  united,  T,  loving  you  ever,  might  not  have  constituted  your  happi- 
ness, and  so  have  known  the  misery  of  losing  your  affection.  May  He 
who  formed  you  for  glorious  and  yet  all  unaccomplished  purposes 
strengthen  you  when  these  eyes  can  no  longer  sparkle  at  your  triumphs, 
nor  weep  at  your  lightest  sorrow.  You  will  go  on  in  your  broad  and 
luminous  career ;  a  few  years,  and  my  remembrance  will  have  left  but 
the  vestige  of  a  dream  behind.  But,  but  —  I  can  write  no  more.  God 
bless  you ! " 


CHAPTER   lY. 

Oh,  stop  this  headlong  current  of  your  goodness ; 
It  comes  too  fast  upon  a  feeble  soul. 

Drvden  :  Sebastian  and  Doras. 

The  smooth  phj^sician  had  paid  his  evening  visit.  Lord 
Saxingham  had  gone  to  a  Cabinet  dinner,  —  for  Life  must  ever 
walk  side  by  side  with  Death, —  and  Lady  Florence  Lascelles 


376  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

was  alone.     It  was  a  room  adjoining  her  sleeping-apartment, 

—  a  room  in  which,  in  the  palmy  days  of  the  brilliant  and 
wayward  heiress,  she  had  loved  to  display  her  fanciful  and 
peculiar  taste.  There  had  she  been  accustomed  to  muse,  to 
write,  to  study;  there  had  she  first  been  dazzled  by  the  novel 
glow  of  Ernest's  undiurnal  and  stately  thoughts;  there  had 
she  first  conceived  the  romance  of  girlhood,  which  had  led  her 
to  confer  with  him  unknown;  there  had  she  first  confessed 
to  herself  that  fancy  had  begotten  love;  there  had  she  gone 
through  love's  short  and  exhausting  process  of  lone  emotion, 

—  the  doubt,  the  hope,  the  ecstasy;  the  reverse,  the  terror; 
the  inanimate  despondency,  the  agonized  despair!  And  there 
now,  sadly  and  patiently,  she  awaited  the  gradual  march  of 
inevitable  decay.  And  books  and  pictures  and  musical  in- 
struments and  marble  busts  half-shadowed  by  classic  drap- 
eries, and  all  the  delicate  elegances  of  womanly  refinement, 
still  invested  the  chamber  with  a  grace  as  cheerful  as  if 
youth  and  beauty  were  to  be  the  occupants  forever,  and  the 
dark  and  noisome  vault  were  not  the  only  lasting  residence 
for  the  things  of  clay! 

Florence  Lascelles  was  dying,  but  not  inSeed  wholly  of  that 
common,  if  mystic,  malady,  a  broken  heart.  Her  health,  al- 
ways delicate,  because  always  preyed  upon  by  a  nervous, 
irritable,  and  feverish  spirit,  had  been  gradually  and  invisi- 
bly undermined  even  before  Ernest  confessed  his  love.  In 
the  singular  lustre  of  those  large-pupilled  eyes,  in  the  luxu- 
riant transparency  of  that  glorious  bloom,  the  experienced 
might  long  since  have  traced  the  seeds  which  cradled  death. 
In  the  night  when  her  restless  and  maddened  heart  so  impru- 
dently drove  her  forth  to  forestall  the  communication  of 
Lumley  (whom  she  had  sent  to  Maltravers,  she  scarce  knew 
for  what  object,  or  with  what  hope),  in  that  night  she  was 
already  in  a  high  state  of  fever.  The  rain  and  the  chill 
struck  the  growing  disease  within;  her  excitement  gave  it 
food  and  fire;  delirium  succeeded;  and  in  that  most  fearful 
and  fatal  of  all  medical  errors,  which  robs  the  frame,  wlien 
it  most  needs  strength,  of  the  very  principle  of  life,  they  had 
bled  her  into  a  temporary  calm  and  into  permanent  and  in- 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  377 

curable  weakness.  Consumption  seized  its  victim.  The  phy- 
sicians who  attended  her  were  the  most  renowned  in  London, 
and  Lord  Saxingham  was  firmly  persuaded  that  there  was  no 
danger.  It  was  not  in  his  nature  to  think  that  death  would 
take  so  great  a  liberty  with  Lady  Florence  Lascelles  when 
there  were  so  many  poor  people  in  the  world  whom  there 
would  be  no  impropriety  in  removing  from  it.  But  Florence 
knew  her  danger,  and  her  high  spirit  did  not  quail  before  it. 
Yet  when  Cesarini,  stung  beyond  endurance  by  the  horrors  of 
his  remorse,  wrote  and  confessed  all  his  own  share  of  the 
fatal  treason,  though,  faithful  to  his  promise,  he  concealed 
that  of  his  accomplice, —  then,  ah,  then  she  did  indeed  re- 
pine at  her  doom,  and  long  to  look  once  more  with  the  eyes 
of  love  and  joy  upon  the  face  of  the  beautiful  world.  But  the 
illness  of  the  body  usually  brings  out  a  latent  power  and 
philosophy  of  the  soul  which  health  never  knows;  and  God 
has  mercifully  ordained  it  as  the  customary  lot  of  nature 
that  in  proportion  as  we  decline  into  the  grave,  the  sloping 
path  is  made  smooth  and  easy  to  our  feet ;  and  every  day,  as 
the  films  of  clay  are  removed  from  our  eyes,  Death  loses  the 
false  aspect  of  the  spectre,  and  we  fall  at  last  into  its  arms 
as  a  wearied  child  upon  the  bosom  of  its  mother. 

It  was  with  a  heavy  heart  that  Lady  Florence  listened  to 
the  monotonous  clicking  oE  the  clock  that  announced  the  de- 
parture of  moments  few,  yet  not  precious,  still  spared  to  her. 
Her  face  buried  in  her  hands,  she  bent  over  the  small  table 
beside  her  sofa,  and  indulged  her  melancholy  thoughts. 
Bowed  was  the  haughty  crest,  unnerved  the  elastic  shape 
that  had  once  seemed  born  for  majesty  and  command.  No 
friends  were  near,  for  Florence  had  never  made  friends ;  soli- 
tary had  been  her  youth,  and  solitary  were  her  dying  hours. 

As  she  thus  sat  and  mused,  a  sound  of  carriage-wheels  in 
the  street  below  slightly  shook  the  room;  it  ceased, —  the 
carriage  stopped  at  the  door.  Florence  looked  up.  "No,  no, 
it  cannot  be,"  she  muttered;  yet  while  she  spoke,  a  faint 
flush  passed  over  her  sunken  and  faded  cheek,  and  the  bosom 
heaved  beneath  the  robe,  ''a  world  too  wide  for  its  shrunk" 
proportions.     There  was  a  silence  which  to  her  seemed  inter- 


378  ERXEST  MALTR AVERS. 

luinable,  and  she  turned  away  with  a  deep  sigh  and  a  chill 
sinking  of  the  heart. 

At  this  time  her  woman  entered  with  a  meaning  and  flur- 
ried look. 

"  1  beg  your  pardon,  my  lady,  but  —  " 

"But  what?" 

"Mr.  Maltravers  has  called  and  asked  for  your  ladyship; 
so,  my  lady,  Mr.  Burton  sent  for  me,  and  I  said  my  lady  is 
too  unwell  to  see  any  one ;  but  Mr.  Maltravers  would  not  be 
denied;  and  he  is  waiting  in  my  lord's  library,  and  insisted 
on  my  coming  up  and  'nouncing  him,  my  lady." 

Now,  Mrs.  Shinfield's  words  were  not  euphonistic,  nor  her 
voice  mellifluous;  but  never  had  eloquence  seemed  to  Flor- 
ence so  effective.  Youth,  love,  beauty,  all  rushed  back  upon 
her  at  once,  brightening  her  eyes,  her  cheek,  and  filling  up 
ruin  with  sudden  and  deceitful  light. 

"Well,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "let  Mr.  Maltravers  come 
up." 

"Come  up,  my  lady?  Bless  me!  Let  me  just  'range  your 
hair;  your  ladyship  is  really  in  such  dish-a-bill." 

"Best  as  it  is,  Shinfield;  he  will  excuse  all.     Go." 

Mrs.  Shinfield  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  departed.  A 
few  moments  more,  a  step  on  the  stairs,  the  creaking  of  the 
door,  and  Maltravers  and  Florence  were  again  alone.  He 
stood  motionless  on  the  threshold.  She  had  involuntarily 
risen,  and  so  they  stood  opposite  to  each  other,  and  the  lamp 
fell  full  upon  her  face.  O  Heaven,  when  did  that  sight 
cease  to  haunt  the  heart  of  Maltravers!  When  shall  that 
altered  aspect  not  pass  as  a  ghost  before  his  eyes !  There  it 
is,  faithful  and  reproachful  alike  in  solitude  and  in  crowds : 
it  is  seen  in  the  glare  of  noon;  it  passes  dim  and  wan  at 
night  beneath  the  stars  and  the  earth;  it  looked  into  his 
heart,  and  left  its  likeness  there  forever  and  forever!  Those 
cheeks,  once  so  beautifully  rounded,  now  sunken  into  lines 
and  hollows ;  the  livid  darkness  beneath  the  eyes ;  the  whit- 
ened lip;  the  sharp,  anxious,  worn  expression,  which  had 
replaced  that  glorious  and  beaming  rerjnrd  from  which  all  the 
life  of  genius,  all  the  sweet  pride  of  womanhood,  had  glowed 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  379 

forth,  and  in  which  not  only  the  intelligence,  but  the  eternity, 
of  the  soul  seemed  visibly  wrought! 

There  he  stood,  aghast  and  appalled.  At  length  a  low- 
groan  broke  from  his  lips;  he  rushed  forward,  sank  on  his 
knees  beside  her,  and  clasping  both  her  hands,  sobbed  aloud 
as  he  covered  them  with  kisses.  All  the  iron  of  his  strong 
nature  was  broken  down,  and  his  emotions,  long  silenced,  and 
now  uncontrollable  and  resistless,  were  something  terrible  to 
behold. 

"Do  not,  do  not  weep  so,"  murmured  Lady  Florence, 
frightened  by  his  vehemence ;  "  I  am  sadly  changed,  but  the 
fault  is  mine, —  Ernest,  it  is  mine.  Best,  kindest,  gentlest, 
how  could  I  have  been  so  mad?  And  you  forgive  me?  I  am 
yours  again, —  a  little  while  yours.  Ah,  do  not  grieve  while 
I  am  so  blessed!  " 

As  she  spoke,  her  tears  —  tears  from  a  source  how  different 
from  that  whence  broke  the  scorching  and  intolerable  agony 
of  his  own!  — fell  soft  upon  his  bended  head  and  the  hands 
that  still  convulsively  strained  hers.  Maltravers  looked 
wildly  up  into  her  countenance,  and  shuddered  as  he  saw  her 
attempt  to  smile.  He  rose  abruptly,  threw  himself  into  a 
chair,  and  covered  his  face.  He  was  seeking  by  a  violent 
effort  to  master  himself,  and  it  was  only  by  the  heaving  of 
his  chest,  and  now  and  then  a  gasp  as  for  breath,  that  he  be- 
trayed the  stormy  struggle  within. 

Florence  gazed  at  him  a  moment  in  bitter,  in  almost  selfish 
penitence.  "And  this  was  the  man  who  seemed  to  me  so 
callous  to  the  softer  sympathies;  this  was  the  heart  I  tram- 
pled upon;  this  the  nature  I  distrusted!  " 

She  came  near  him,  trembling  and  with  feeble  stejis;  she 
laid  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder;  and  the  fondness  of  love 
came  over  her,  and  she  wound  her  arms  around  him. 

"It  is  our  fate, —  it  is  my  fate,"  said  ]\Ialtravers  at  last, 
awaking  as  from  a  hideous  dream,  and  in  a  hollow  but  calm 
voice;  "we  are  the  things  of  destiny,  and  the  wheel  has 
crushed  us.  It  is  an  awful  state  of  being,  this  human  life! 
"What  are  wisdom,  virtue,  faith  to  men,  piety  to  Heaven,  all 
the  nurture  we  bestow  on  ourselves,  all  our  desire  to  win  a 


380  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

loftier  sphere, —  when  we  are  thus  the  tools  of  the  merest 
chance,  the  victims  of  the  pettiest  villany;  and  our  very  ex- 
istence —  our  very  senses  almost  —  at  the  mercy  of  every 
traitor  and  every  fool !  " 

There  was  something  in  Ernest's  voice,  as  well  as  in  his 
reflections,  which  appeared  so  unnaturally  calm  and  deep  that 
it  startled  Florence  with  a  fear  more  acute  than  his  previous 
violence  had  done.  He  rose,  and  muttering  to  himself, 
walked  to  and  fro,  as  if  insensible  of  her  presence;  in  fact 
he  was  so.  At  length  he  stopped  short,  and  fixing  his  eyes 
upon  Lady  Florence,  said  in  a  whispered  and  thrilling 
tone, — 

"Now,  then,  the  name  of  our  undoer?  " 

"  Ko,  Ernest,  no,  never,  unless  you  promise  me  to  forego 
the  purpose  which  I  read  in  your  eyes.  He  has  confessed, 
he  is  penitent, —  I  have  forgiven  him;  you  will  do  so  too!  " 

"  His  name !  "  repeated  Maltravers ;  and  his  face,  before 
very  flushed,  was  unnaturally  pale. 

"Forgive  him, —  promise  me." 

"  His  name,  I  say ;  his  name !  " 

"Is  this  kind?  You  terrify  me;  you  will  kill  me!"  fal- 
tered out  Florence;  and  she  sank  on  the  sofa  exhausted.  Her 
nerves,  now  so  weakened,  were  perfectly  unstrung  by  his 
vehemence,  and  she  wrung  her  hands  and  wept  piteously. 

"You  will  not  tell  me  his  name?  "  said  Maltravers,  softly. 
"Be  it  so.  I  will  ask  no  more;  I  can  discover  it  myself. 
Fate  the  Avenger  will  reveal  it." 

At  the  thought  he  grew  more  composed ;  and  as  Florence 
wept  on,  the  unnatural  concentration  and  fierceness  of  his 
mind  again  gave  way,  and  seating  himself  beside  her,  he 
uttered  all  that  could  soothe  and  comfort  and  console.  And 
Florence  was  soon  soothed!  And  there,  while  over  their 
heads  the  grim  skeleton  was  holding  the  funeral  pall,  tliey 
again  exchanged  their  vows,  and  again,  with  feelings  fonder 
than  of  old,  spoke  of  love. 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  381 


CHAPTER   V. 

Erichtho,  then, 
Breathes  her  dire  murmurs,  which  enforce  him  bear 
Her  baneful  secrets  to  the  spirits  of  horror.  —  Marlowe. 

With  a  heavy  step  Maltravers  ascended  the  stairs  of  his 
lonely  house  that  night,  and  heavily,  with  a  suppressed 
groan,  did  he  sink  upon  the  first  chair  that  proffered  rest. 

It  was  intensely  cold.  During  his  long  interview  with 
Lady  Florence,  his  servant  had  taken  the  precaution  to  go  to 
Seamore  Place  and  make  some  hasty  preparations  for  the 
owner's  return.  But  the  bedroom  looked  comfortless  and 
bare,  the  curtains  were  taken  down,  the  carpets  were  taken 
up, —  a  single  man's  housekeeper  is  wonderfully  provident  in 
these  matters;  the  moment  his  back  is  turned,  she  bustles, 
she  displaces,  she  exults:  "Things  can  be  put  a  little  to 
rights !  "  Even  the  fire  would  not  burn  clear,  but  gleamed 
sullen  and  fitful  from  the  smothering  fuel.  It  was  a  large 
chamber,  and  the  lights  imperfectly  filled  it.  On  the  table 
lay  parliamentary  papers  and  pamphlets  and  bills  and  pres- 
entation-books from  younger  authors, —  evidences  of  the  teem- 
ing business  of  that  restless  machine  the  world.  But  of  all 
this  Maltravers  was  not  sensible;  the  winter  frost  numbed 
not  his  feverish  veins.  His  servant,  who  loved  him,  as  all 
who  saw  much  of  Maltravers  did,  fidgeted  anxiously  about 
the  room,  and  plied  the  sullen  fire,  and  laid  out  the  comfort- 
able dressing-robe,  and  placed  wine  on  the  table,  and  asked 
questions  which  were  not  answered,  and  pressed  service 
which  was  not  heeded.  The  little  wheels  of  life  go  on,  even 
when  the  great  wheel  is  paralj'zed  or  broken.  ^Maltravers 
was,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  in  a  kind  of  mental  trance.  His 
emotions  had  left  him  thoroughly  exhausted.  He  felt  that 
torpor  which  succeeds  and  is  again  the  precursor  of  great 
woe.     At  length  he  was  alone,  and  the  solitude  half  uncon- 


382  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

sciously  restored  him  to  the  sense  of  his  heavy  misery;  for 
it  may  be  observed  that  when  misfortune  has  stricken  us 
home,  the  presence  of  any  one  seems  to  interfere  between 
the  memory  and  the  heart.  Withdraw  the  intruder,  and  the 
lifted  hammer  falls  at  once  upon  the  anvil!  He  rose  as  the 
door  closed  on  his  attendant,  rose  with  a  start,  and  pushed 
the  hat  from  his  gathered  brows.  He  walked  for  some  mo- 
ments to  and  fro,  and  the  air  of  the  room,  freezing  as  it  was, 
oppressed  him. 

There  are  times  when  the  arrow  quivers  within  us,  in  which 
all  space  seems  too  confined.  Like  the  wounded  hart,  we 
could  fly  on  forever;  there  is  a  vague  desire  of  escape, —  a 
yearning,  almost  insane,  to  get  out  from  our  own  selves ;  the 
soul  struggles  to  flee  away,  and  take  the  wings  of  the 
morning. 

Impatiently,  at  last,  did  Maltravers  throw  open  his  window; 
it  communicated  with  a  balcony  built  out  to  command  the 
wide  view  which,  from  a  certain  height,  that  part  of  the  park 
affords.  He  stepped  into  the  balcony  and  bared  his  breast  to 
the  keen  air.  The  uncomfortable  and  icy  heavens  looked 
down  upon  the  hoar-rime  that  gathered  over  the  grass  and 
the  ghostly  boughs  of  the  deathlike  trees.  All  things  in  the 
world  without  brought  the  thought  of  the  grave,  and  the  pause 
of  being,  and  the  withering  up  of  beauty,  closer  and  closer 
to  his  soul.  In  the  palpable  and  griping  winter,  death  itself 
seemed  to  wind  around  him  its  skeleton  and  joyless  arms. 
And  as  thus  he  stood,  and  wearied  with  contending  against, 
passively  yielded  to,  the  bitter  passions  that  wrung  and 
gnawed  his  heart,  he  heard  not  a  sound  at  the  door,  nor  the 
footsteps  on  the  stairs,  nor  knew  he  that  a  visitor  was  in  his 
room,  till  he  felt  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  turning 
round,  he  beheld  the  white  and  livid  countenance  of  Cas- 
truccio  Cesarini. 

"  It  is  a  dreary  night  and  a  solemn  hour,  Maltravers, "  said 
the  Italian,  with  a  distorted  smile, —  *'a  fitting  night  and 
time  for  my  interview  with  you." 

"Away!"  said  Maltravers,  in  an  impatient  tone.  "I  am 
not  at  leisure  for  these  mock  heroics." 


ERNEST   MALTHA  VERS.  383 

"Ay,  but  you  shall  hear  me  to  the  end.  I  have  watched 
your  arrival,  I  have  counted  the  hours  in  which  you  remained 
with  her,  I  have  followed  you  home.  If  you  have  human 
passions,  humanity  itself  must  be  dried  up  within  you,  and 
the  wild  beast  in  his  cavern  is  not  more  fearful  to  encounter. 
Thus,  then,  I  seek  and  brave  you.  Be  still.  Has  Florence 
revealed  to  you  the  name  of  him  who  belied  you,  and  who 
betrayed  herself  to  the  death?  " 

"Ha!"  said  Maltravers,  growing  very  pale,  and  fixing  his 
eyes  on  Cesarini,  "you  are  not  the  man, —  my  suspicions 
lighted  elsewhere." 

"I  am  the  man.     Do  thy  worst." 

Scarce  were  the  words  uttered,  when,  with  a  fierce  cry, 
Maltravers  threw  himself  on  the  Italian;  he  tore  him  from 
his  footing,  he  grasped  him  in  his  arms  as  a  child,  he  liter- 
ally whirled  him  around  and  on  high ;  and  in  that  maddening 
paroxysm,  it  was,  perhaps,  but  the  balance  of  a  feather,  in 
the  conflicting  elements  of  revenge  and  reason,  which  withheld 
Maltravers  from  hurling  the  criminal  from  the  fearful  height 
on  which  they  stood.  The  temptation  passed;  Cesarini  leaned 
safe,  unharmed,  but  half  senseless  with  mingled  rage  and 
fear,  against  the  wall. 

He  was  alone;  IMaltravers  had  left  him,  had  fled  from  him- 
self,—  fled  into  the  chamber;  fled  for  refuge  from  human 
passions  to  the  wing  of  the  All-Seeing  and  All-Present. 
"Father,"  he  groaned,  sinking  on  his  knees,  "support  me, 
save  me;  without  Thee  I  am  lost." 

Slowly  Cesarini  recovered  himself,  and  re-entered  the  npart- 
ment.  A  string  in  his  brain  was  already  loosened,  and,  sullen 
and  ferocious,  he  returned  again  to  goad  the  lion  tliat  had 
spared  him.  Maltravers  had  already  risen  from  his  brief 
prayer.  With  locked  and  rigid  countenance,  with  arms 
folded  on  his  breast,  he  stood  confronting  the  Italian,  who 
advanced  towards  him  with  a  menacing  brow  and  arm,  but 
halted  involuntarily  at  the  sight  of  that  commanding  aspect. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Maltravers  at  last,  with  a  tone  preter- 
naturally  calm  and  low,  "  you  then  are  the  man.  Speak  on : 
what  arts  did  you  employ?  " 


384  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

"Your  own  letter.  When,  many  months  ago,  I  -wrote  to 
tell  you  of  the  hopes  it  was  mine  to  conceive,  and  to  ask  your 
opinion  of  her  I  loved,  how  did  you  answer  me?  With 
doubts,  with  depreciation,  with  covert  and  polished  scorn,  of 
the  very  woman,  whom,  with  a  deliberate  treachery,  you 
afterwards  wrested  from  my  worshipping  and  adoring  love. 
That  letter  I  garbled.  I  made  the  doubts  you  expressed  of 
my  happiness  seem  doubts  of  your  own.  I  changed  the  dates ; 
I  made  the  letter  itself  appear  written,  not  on  your  first  ac- 
quaintance with  her,  but  subsequent  to  your  plighted  and  ac- 
cepted vows.  Your  own  handwriting  convicted  you  of  mean 
suspicions  and  of  sordid  motives.     These  were  my  arts." 

"They  were  most  noble.  Do  you  abide  by  them,  or 
repent?  " 

"  For  what  I  have  done  to  thee  I  have  no  repentance.  Nay, 
I  regard  thee  still  as  the  aggressor.  Thou  hast  robbed  me  of 
her  who  was  all  the  world  to  me ;  and  be  thine  excuses  what 
they  may,  I  hate  thee  with  a  hate  that  cannot  slumber, —  that 
abjures  the  abject  name  of  remorse!  I  exalt  in  the  very 
agonies  thou  endurest.  But  for  her, — the  stricken,  the  dy- 
ing !    0  God,  0  God !    The  blow  falls  upon  mine  own  head !  " 

"Dying!"  said  Maltravers,  slowly  and  with  a  shudder. 
"No,  no;  not  dying, —  or  what  art  thou?  Her  murderer! 
And  what  must  I  be?     Her  avenger!  " 

Overpowered  with  his  own  passions,  Cesarini  sank  down 
and  covered  his  face  with  his  clasped  hands.  Maltravers 
stalked  gloomily  to  and  fro  the  apartment.  There  was  si- 
lence for  some  moments. 

At  length  Maltravers  paused  opposite  Cesarini  and  thus 
addressed  him :  — 

"  You  have  come  hither  not  so  much  to  confess  the  basest 
crime  of  which  man  can  be  guilty,  as  to  gloat  over  my  anguish 
and  to  brave  me  to  revenge  my  wrongs.  Go,  man,  go;  for 
the  present  you  are  safe.  While  she  lives,  my  life  is  not 
mine  to  hazard;  if  she  recover,  I  can  pity  you  and  forgive. 
To  me  your  offence,  foul  though  it  be,  sinks  below  contempt 
itself.  It  is  the  consequences  of  that  crime  as  they  relate 
to  —  to  —  that  noble  and  suffering  woman  which  can  alone 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  385 

raise  the  despicable  into  the  tragic  and  make  your  lifo  a 
worthy  and  a  necessary  offering, —  not  to  revenge,  but  justice. 
Life  for  life,  victim  for  victim!  'T  is  the  old  law, —  't  is  a 
righteous  one." 

"  You  shall  not,  with  your  accursed  coldness,  thus  dispose 
of  me  as  you  will,  and  arrogate  the  option  to  smite  or  save! 
No,"  continued  Cesarini,  stamping  his  foot, —  "no;  far  from 
seeking  forbearance  at  your  hands,  I  dare  and  defy  you !  You 
think  I  have  injured  you, —  I,  on  the  other  hand,  consider 
that  the  wrong  has  come  from  yourself.  But  for  you,  she 
might  have  loved  me, —  have  been  mine.  Let  that  pass. 
But  for  you,  at  least,  it  is  certain  that  I  should  neither  have 
sullied  my  soul  with  a  vile  sin,  nor  brought  the  brightest  of 
human  beings  to  the  grave.  If  she  dies,  the  murder  may  be 
mine,  but  you  were  the  cause, —  the  devil  that  tempted  to  the 
offence.  I  defy  and  spit  upon  you;  I  have  no  softness  left  in 
me;  my  veins  are  fire, —  my  heart  thirsts  for  blood.  You, 
you  have  still  the  privilege  to  see,  to  bless,  to  tend  her;  and 
I  —  I,  who  loved  her  so,  who  could  have  kissed  the  earth  she 
trod  on  —  I —  Well,  well,  no  matter.  I  hate  you;  I  insult 
you;  I  call  you  villain  and  dastard;  I  throw  myself  on  the 
laws  of  honour,  and  I  demand  that  conflict  you  defer  or 
deny !  " 

"Home,  doter,  home;  fall  on  thy  knees  and  pray  to 
Heaven  for  pardon ;  make  up  thy  dread  account;  repine  not 
at  the  days  yet  thine  to  wash  the  black  spot  from  thy  soul. 
For,  while  I  speak,  I  foresee  too  well  that  her  days  are  num- 
bered, and  with  her  thread  of  life  is  entwined  thine  own. 
Within  twelve  hours  from  her  last  moment,  we  shall  meet 
again.  But  now  I  am  as  ice  and  stone;  thou  canst  not  move 
me.  Her  closing  life  shall  not  be  darkened  by  the  aspect  of 
blood,  by  the  thought  of  the  sacrifice  it  demands.  Begone, 
or  menials  shall  cast  thee  from  my  door;  those  lips  are  too 
base  to  breathe  the  same  air  as  honest  men.  Begone,  I  say, 
begone ! " 

Though  scarce  a  muscle  moved  in  the  lofty  countenance  of 
Maltravers,  though  no  frown  darkened  the  majestic  brow, 
though  no  fire  broke  from  the  steadfast  and  scornful  eye, 

25 


386  ERXEST  MALTR AVERS. 

there  was  a  kingly  authority  in  the  aspect,  in  the  extended 
arm,  the  stately  crest,  and  a  power  in  the  swell  of  the  stern 
voice,  which  awed  and  quelled  the  unhappy  being  whose  own 
passions  exhausted  and  unmanned  him.  He  strove  to  fling 
back  scorn  to  scorn;  but  his  lips  trembled,  and  his  voice  died 
in  hollow  murmurs  within  his  breast.  Maltravers  regarded 
him  with  a  crushing  and  intense  disdain.  The  Italian,  with 
shame  and  wrath,  wrestled  against  himself,  but  in  vain;  the 
cold  eye  that  was  fixed  upon  him  was  as  a  spell  which  the 
fiend  within  him  could  not  rebel  against  or  resist.  Mechani- 
cally he  moved  to  the  door;  then,  turning  round,  he  shook  his 
clenched  hand  at  Maltravers,  and  with  a  wild,  maniacal  laugh 
rushed  from  the  apartment. 


CHAPTER  YI. 

Ok  some  fond  breast  tlie  parting  soul  relies.  —  Gray. 

Not  a  day  passed  in  which  Maltravers  was  absent  from  the 
side  of  Florence.  He  came  early,  he  went  late.  He  subsided 
into  his  former  character  of  an  accepted  suitor  without  a  word 
of  explanation  with  Lord  Saxingham.  That  task  was  left  to 
Florence.  She  doubtless  performed  it  well,  for  his  lordship 
seemed  satisfied,  though  grave  and,  almost  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  sad.  Maltravers  never  reverted  to  the  cause  of 
their  unhappy  dissension,  nor  from  that  night  did  he  once 
give  way  to  whatever  might  be  his  more  agonized  and  fierce 
emotions;  he  never  affected  to  reproach  himself, —  he  never 
bewailed  with  a  vain  despair  their  approaching  separation. 
Whatever  it  cost  him,  he  stood  collected  and  stoical  in  the 
intense  power  of  his  self-control.  He  had  but  one  object, 
one  desire,  one  hope,— to  save  the  last  hours  of  Florence 
Lascelles  from  every  pang;  to  brighten  and  smooth  the  pas- 
sage across  the  Solemn  Bridge.  His  forethought,  his  presence 
of  mind,  his  care,  his  tenderness,  never  forsook  him  for  an 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  387 

instant;  they  went  beyond  the  attributes  of  men,  they  went 
into  all  the  line,  the  indescribable  minutiae  by  which  woman 
makes  herself,  "in  pain  and  anguish,"  the  "ministering 
angel."  It  was  as  if  he  had  nerved  and  braced  his  whole 
nature  to  one  duty ;  as  if  that  duty  were  more  felt  than  affec- 
tion itself;  as  if  he  were  resolved  that  Florence  should  not 
remember  that  she  had  no  mother  ! 

And  oh,  then,  how  Florence  loved  him!  How  far  more 
luxurious,  in  its  grateful  and  clinging  fondness,  was  that  love 
than  tlie  wild  and  jealous  fire  of  their  earlier  connection! 
Her  own  character,  as  is  often  the  case  in  lingering  illness, 
became  incalculably  more  gentle  and  softened  down  as  the 
shadows  closed  around  it.  She  loved  to  make  him  read  and 
talk  to  her;  and  her  ancient  poetry  of  thought  now  grew  mel- 
lowed, as  it  were,  into  religion,  which  is  indeed  poetry  with 
a  stronger  wing.  There  was  a  world  beyond  the  grave ;  there 
was  life  out  of  the  chrysalis  sleep  of  death, —  they  would  yet 
be  united.  And  Maltravers,  who  was  a  solemn  and  intense 
believer  in  the  Grkat  Hope,  did  not  neglect  the  purest  and 
highest  of  all  the  fountains  of  solace. 

Often  in  that  quiet  room  in  that  gorgeous  mansion  which 
had  been  the  scene  of  all  vain  or  worldly  schemes,  of  flirta- 
tions and  feastings  and  political  meetings  and  Cabinet  dinners 
and  all  the  bubbles  of  the  passing  wave, —  often  there  did 
these  persons,  whose  position  to  each  other  had  been  so  sud- 
denly and  so  strangely  changed,  converse  on  those  matters, 
daring  and  divine,  which  "  make  the  bridal  of  the  earth  and 
sky." 

"How  fortunate  am  I,"  said  Florence  one  day,  "that  my 
choice  fell  on  one  who  thinks  as  you  do !  How  your  words 
elevate  and  exalt  me !  Yet  once  I  never  dreamed  of  asking 
your  creed  on  these  questions.  It  is  in  sorrow  or  sickness 
that  we  learn  why  Faith  was  given  as  a  soother  to  man, — 
Faith,  which  is  Hope  with  a  holier  name;  Hope  that  knows 
neither  deceit  nor  death.  Ah,  how  wisely  do  j'ou  speak  of 
the  philosophij  ot  belief!  It  is  indeed  the  telescope  through 
which  the  stars  grow  large  upon  our  gaze.  And  to  you, 
Ernest,  my  beloved, —  comprehended  and  known  at  last,  —  to 


388  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

you  I  leave,  -when  I  am  gone,  that  monitor,  that  friend;  you 
will  know  yourself  what  you  teach  to  me.  And  when  you 
look,  not  on  the  heaven  alone,  but  in  all  space, —  on  all  the 
illimitable  creation, —  you  will  know  that  I  am  there!  For 
the  home  of  a  spirit  is  wherever  spreads  the  Universal  Pres- 
ence of  God.  And  to  what  numerous  stages  of  being,  what 
paths,  what  duties,  what  active  and  glorious  tasks  in  other 
worlds,  may  we  not  be  reserved, —  perhaps  to  know  and  share 
them  together,  and  mount  age  after  age  higher  in  the  scale  of 
being.  For  surely  in  heaven  there  is  no  pause  or  torpor;  we 
do  not  lie  down  in  calm  and  unimprovable  repose.  Movement 
and  progress  will  remain  the  law  and  condition  of  existence. 
And  there  will  be  efforts  and  duties  for  us  above,  as  there 
have  been  below." 

It  was  in  this  theory,  which  Maltravers  shared,  that  the 
character  of  Florence,  her  overflowing  life  and  activity  of 
thought,  her  aspirations,  her  ambition,  were  still  displayed. 
It  was  not  so  much  to  the  calm  and  rest  of  the  grave  that  she 
extended  her  unreluctant  gaze,  as  to  the  light  and  glory  of  a 
renewed  and  progressive  existence. 

It  was  while  thus  they  sat,  the  low  voice  of  Ernest,  tran- 
quil yet  half  trembling  with  the  emotions  he  sought  to  re- 
strain, sometimes  sobering,  sometimes  yet  more  elevating, 
the  thoughts  of  Florence,  that  Lord  Vargrave  was  announced; 
and  Lumley  Ferrers,  who  had  now  succeeded  to  that  title, 
entered  the  room.  It  was  the  first  time  that  Florence  had 
seen  him  since  the  death  of  his  uncle, —  the  first  time  Mal- 
travers had  seen  him  since  the  evening  so  fatal  to  Florence. 
Both  started;  Maltravers  rose  and  jwalked  to  the  window. 
Lord  Vargrave  took  the  hand  of  his  cousin  and  pressed  it  to 
his  lips  in  silence,  while  his  looks  betokened  feelings  that 
for  once  were  genuine. 

"You  see,  Lumley,  I  am  resigned,"  said  Florence,  with  a 
sweet  smile;  "I  am  resigned  and  happy." 

Lumley  glanced  at  Maltravers,  and  met  a  cold,  scrutinizing, 
piercing  eye,  from  which  he  shrank  with  some  confusion. 
He  recovered  himself  in  an  instant. 

"I  am  rejoiced,  my  cousin,  I  am  rejoiced,"  said  he,  very 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  389 

earnestly,  "to  see  Maltravers  here  again.  Let  us  now  hope 
the  best." 

Maltravers  walked  deliberately  up  to  Lumley.  "  Will  you 
take  my  hand  now  too?  "  said  he,  with  deep  meaning  in  his 
tone. 

"More  willingly  than  ever,"  said  Lumley;  and  he  did  not 
shrink  as  he  said  it. 

"I  am  satisfied,"  replied  Maltravers,  after  a  pause,  and  in 
a  voice  that  expressed  more  than  his  words. 

There  is  in  some  natures  so  great  a  hoard  of  generosity  that 
it  often  dulls  their  acuteness.  Maltravers  could  not  believe 
that  frankness  could  be  wholly  a  mask, —  it  was  an  hypocrisy 
he  knew  not  of.  He  himself  was  not  incapable,  had  circum- 
stances so  urged  him,  of  great  crimes, —  nay,  the  design  of 
one  crime  lay  at  that  moment  deadly  and  dark  within  his 
heart;  for  he  had  some  passions  which  in  so  resolute  a  char- 
acter could  produce,  should  the  wind  waken  them  into  storm, 
dire  and  terrible  effects.  Even  at  the  age  of  thirty  it  was  yet 
uncertain  whether  Ernest  Maltravers  might  become  an  ex- 
emplary or  an  evil  man.  But  he  could  sooner  have  strangled 
a  foe  than  taken  the  hand  of  a  man  whom  he  had  once 
betrayed. 

"I  love  to  think  you  friends,"  said  Florence,  gazing  at 
them  affectionately,  "and  to  you,  at  least,  Lumley,  such 
friendship  should  be  a  blessing.  I  always  loved  you  much 
and  dearly,  Lumley, —  loved  you  as  a  brother,  though  our 
characters  often  jarred." 

Lumley  winced.  "For  Heaven's  sake,"  he  cried,  "do  not 
speak  thus  tenderly  to  me;  I  cannot  bear  it,  and  look  on  you 
and  think  —  " 

"  That  I  am  dying.  Kind  words  become  us  best  when  our 
words  are  approaching  to  the  last.  But  enough  of  this.  T 
grieved  for  your  loss." 

"  My  poor  uncle !  "  said  Lumley,  eagerly  changing  the  con- 
versation,—  "the  shock  was  sudden;  and  melancholy  duties 
have  absorbed  me  so  till  this  day  that  I  could  not  come  even 
to  you.  It  soothed  me,  however,  to  learn,  in  answer  to  my 
daily  inquiries,    that  Ernest  was  here.     For  my  part,"  he 


390  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

added,  with  a  faint  smile,  "I  have  had  duties  as  well  as 
honours  devolved  on  me.  I  am  left  guardian  to  an  heiress, 
and  betrothed  to  a  child." 

"How  do  you  mean?  " 

"Why,  my  poor  uncle  was  so  fondly  attached  to  his  wife's 
daughter  that  he  has  left  her  the  bulk  of  his  property ;  a  very 
small  estate,  not  two  thousand  pounds  a  year,  goes  with  the 
title, —  a  new  title,  too,  which  requires  twice  as  much  to 
carry  it  off  and  make  its  pinchbeck  pass  for  gold.  In  order, 
however,  to  serve  a  double  purpose, —  secure  to  his  protegee 
his  own  beloved  peerage,  and  atone  to  his  nej)hew  for  the  loss 
of  wealth, —  he  has  left  it  a  last  request  that  I  should  marrj^ 
the  young  lady,  over  whom  I  am  appointed  guardian,  when 
she  is  eighteen.  Alas !  I  shall  then  be  at  the  other  side  of 
forty!  If  she  does  not  take  to  so  mature  a  bridegroom,  she 
loses  thirty  —  only  thirty  —  of  the  two  hundred  thousand 
pounds  settled  upon  her,  which  goes  to  me  as  a  sugar-plum 
after  the  nauseous  draught  of  the  young  lady's  '  No.'  Xow 
you  know  all.  His  widow,  really  an  exemplary  young 
woman,  has  a  jointure  of  fifteen  hundred  pounds  a  year  and 
the  villa.     It  is  not  much,  but  she  is  contented." 

The  lightness  of  the  new  peer's  tone  revolted  Maltravers, 
and  he  turned  impatiently  away.  But  Lord  Vargrave,  resol- 
ving not  to  suffer  the  conversation  to  glide  back  to  sorrowful 
subjects,  which  he  always  hated,  turned  round  to  Ernest  and 
said :   "  Well,  my  dear  Ernest,  I  see  by  the  papers  that  you 

are  to  have  N 's  late  appointment:    it  is  a  very  rising 

office;   I  congratulate  you." 

"I  have  refused,"  said  Maltravers,  dryly. 

"Bless  me!     Indeed,  why?" 

Ernest  bit  his  lip  and  frowned ;  but  his  glance  wandering 
unconsciously  at  Florence,  Lumley  thought  he  detected  the 
true  reply  to  his  question,  and  became  mute. 

The  conversation  was  afterwards  embarrassed  and  broken 
up;  Lumley  went  away  as  soon  as  he  could,  and  Lady  Flor- 
ence that  night  had  a  severe  fit,  and  could  not  leave  her  bed 
the  next  day.  That  confinement  she  had  struggled  against 
to  the  last;  and  now,  day  by  day,  it  grew  more  frequent  and 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  391 

inevitable.  Tlie  steps  of  Death  became  accelerated,  and  Lord 
Saxingham,  wakened  at  last  to  the  mournful  truth,  took  his 
place  by  his  daughter's  side,  and  forgot  that  he  was  a  Cabinet 
minister. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Away,  my  friends  ;  why  take  such  paius  to  know 

What  some  brave  marble  soon  in  church  shall  show  1  —  Crabbe. 

It  may  seem  strange,  but  Maltravers  had  never  loved  Lady 
Florence  as  he  did  now.  Was  it  the  perversity  of  human 
nature,  that  makes  the  things  of  mortality  dearer  to  us  in 
proportion  as  they  fade  from  our  hopes,  like  birds  whose  hues 
are  only  unfolded  when  they  take  wing  and  vanish  amidst  the 
skies ;  or  was  it  that  he  had  ever  doted  more  on  loveliness  of 
mind  than  that  of  form,  and  the  first  bloomed  out  the  more, 
the  more  the  last  decayed?  A  thing  to  protect,  to  soothe,  to 
shelter, —  oh,  how  dear  it  is  to  the  pride  of  man!  The 
haughty  woman  who  can  stand  alone  and  requires  no  leaning- 
place  in  our  heart,  loses  the  spell  of  her  sex. 

I  pass  over  those  stages  of  decline  gratuitously  painful  to 
record,  and  which  in  this  case  mine  cannot  be  the  cold  and 
technical  hand  to  trace.  At  length  came  that  time  when  phy- 
sicians could  define  within  a  few  days  the  final  hour  of  re- 
lease. And  latterly  the  mocking  pruderies  of  rank  had  been 
laid  aside,  and  Maltravers  had,  for  some  hours  at  least  in  the 
day,  taken  his  watch  beside  the  couch  to  which  the  admired 
and  brilliant  Florence  Lascelles  was  now  almost  constantly 
reduced.  But  her  high  and  heroic  spirit  was  with  her  to  the 
last.  To  the  last  she  could  endure  love  and  hope.  One  day, 
when  Maltravers  left  his  post,  she  besought  him,  with  more 
solemnity  than  usual,  to  return  that  evening.  She  fixed  the 
precise  hour,  and  she  sighed  heavily  when  he  departed.  Mal- 
travers paused  in  the  hall  to  speak  to  the  physician,  who  was 


392  ERNEST   MALTRAYERS. 

just  quitting  Lord  Saxingham's  library.  Ernest  spoke  to  him 
for  some  moments  calmly,  and  when  he  heard  the  fiat,  he  be- 
trayed no  other  emotion  than  a  slight  quiver  of  the  lip.  "  I 
must  not  weep  for  her  yet,"  he  muttered,  as  he  turned  from 
the  door.  He  went  thence  to  the  house  of  a  gentleman  of  his 
own  age,  with  whom  he  had  formed  that  kind  of  acquaintance 
which  never  amounts  to  familiar  friendship,  but  rests  upon 
mutual  respect,  and  is  often  more  ready  than  professed  friend- 
ship itself  to  confer  mutual  service.  Colonel  Danvers  was  a 
man  who  usually  sat  next  to  Maltravers  in  parliament;  they 
voted  together,  and  thought  alike  on  principles  both  of  poli- 
tics and  honour;  they  would  have  lent  thousands  to  each 
other  without  bond  or  memorandum;  and  neither  ever  wanted 
a  warm  and  indignant  advocate  when  he  was  abused  behind 
his  back  in  the  presence  of  the  other.  Yet  their  tastes  and 
ordinary  habits  were  not  congenial,  and  when  they  met  in  the 
streets,  they  never  said,  as  they  would  to  companions  they 
esteemed  less,  "Let  us  spend  the  day  together."  Such  forms 
of  acquaintance  are  not  uncommon  among  honorable  men  who 
have  already  formed  habits  and  pursuits  of  their  own  which 
they  cannot  surrender  even  to  friendship.  Colonel  Danvers 
was  not  at  home;  they  believed  he  was  at  his  club,  of  which 
Ernest  also  was  a  member.  Thither  Maltravers  bent  his  way. 
On  arriving,  he  found  that  Danvers  had  been  at  the  club  an 
hour  ago,  and  left  word  that  he  should  shortly  return.  Mal- 
travers entered  and  quietly  sat  down.  The  room  was  full  of 
its  daily  loungers;  but  he  did  not  shrink  from,  he  did  not 
even  heed,  the  crowd.  He  felt  not  the  desire  of  solitude, — 
there  was  solitude  enough  Avithin  him.  Several  distinguished 
public  men  were  there,  grouped  around  the  fire,  and  many  of 
the  hangers-on  and  satellites  of  political  life;  they  were  talk- 
ing with  eagerness  and  animation,  for  it  was  a  season  of  great 
party  conflict.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  though  Maltravers 
was  then  scarcely  sensible  of  their  conversation,  it  all  came 
back  vividly  and  faithfully  on  him  afterwards,  in  the  first 
hours  of  reflection  on  his  own  future  plans,  and  served  to 
deepen  and  consolidate  his  disgust  of  the  world.  They  were 
discussing  the  character  of  a  great  statesman  whom,  warmed 


ERNEST   JIALTRAVERS.  393 

but  by  the  loftiest  and  purest  motives,  they  were  unable  to 
understand.  Their  gross  suspicions,  their  coarse  jealousies, 
their  calculations  of  patriotism  by  place,  all  that  strips  the 
varnish  from  the  face  of  that  fair  harlot.  Political  Ambition, 
sank  like  caustic  into  his  spirit.  A  gentleman  seeing  him  sit 
silent,  with  his  hat  over  his  moody  brows,  civilly  extended  to 
him  the  paper  he  was  reading. 

"It  is  the  second  edition;  you  will  find  the  last  French 
express." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Maltravers;  and  the  civil  man  started 
as  he  heard  the  brief  answer,  there  was  something  so  inex- 
pressibly prostrate  and  broken-spirited  in  the  voice  that  ut- 
tered it. 

Maltravers 's  eyes  fell  mechanically  on  the  columns,  and 
caught  his  own  name.  That  work  which,  in  the  fair  retire- 
ment of  Temple  Grove,  it  had  so  pleased  him  to  compose,  — 
in  every  page  and  every  thought  of  which  Florence  had  been 
consulted,  which  was  so  inseparably  associated  with  her  im- 
age, and  glorified  by  the  light  of  her  kindred  genius,  was  just 
published.  It  had  been  completed  long  since;  but  the  pub- 
lisher had,  for  some  excellent  reason  of  the  craft,  hitherto 
delayed  its  appearance.  Maltravers  knew  nothing  of  its  pub- 
lication; he  had  meant,  after  his  return  to  town,  to  send  to 
forbid  its  appearance;  but  his  thoughts  of  late  had  crushed 
everything  else  out  of  his  memory, —  he  had  forgotten  its  ex- 
istence. And  now,  in  all  the  pomp  and  parade  of  authorship, 
it  was  sent  into  the  world;  note,  noiv,  when  it  was  like  an 
indecent  mockery  of  the  Bed  of  Death, —  a  sacrilege,  an  im- 
piety !  There  is  a  terrible  disconnection  between  the  author 
and  the  man, —  the  author's  life  and  the  man's  life;  the  eras 
of  visible  triumph  may  be  those  of  the  most  intolerable, 
though  unrevealed  and  imconjectured,  anguish.  The  book 
that  delighted  us  to  compose  may  first  appear  in  the  hour 
when  all  things  under  the  sun  are  joyless.  This  had  been 
Ernest  Maltravers 's  most  favoured  work.  It  had  been  con- 
ceived in  a  happy  hour  of  great  ambition;  it  had  been  exe- 
cuted with  that  desire  of  truth  which  in  the  mind  of  genius 
becomes  Art.     How  little  in  the  solitary  hours  stolen  from 


394  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

sleep  had  he  thought  of  self  aud  that  labourer's  hire  called 
"fame;  "  how  had  he  dreamed  that  he  was  promulgating  se- 
crets to  make  his  kind  better  and  wiser  and  truer  to  the  great 
aims  of  life !  How  had  Florence,  and  Florence  alone,  under- 
stood the  beatings  of  his  heart  in  every  page !  And  7iow  !  It 
so  chanced  that  the  work  was  reviewed  in  the  paper  he  read ; 
it  was  not  only  a  hostile  criticism,  it  was  a  personally  abusive 
diatribe,  a  virulent  invective.  All  the  motives  that  can 
darken  or  defile  were  ascribed  to  him.  All  the  mean  spite  of 
some  mean  mind  was  sputtered  forth.  Had  the  writer  known 
the  awful  blow  that  awaited  Maltravers  at  that  time,  it  is  not 
in  man's  nature  but  that  he  would  have  shrunk  from  this 
petty  gall  upon  the  wrung  withers ;  but,  as  I  have  said,  there 
is  a  terrible  disconnection  between  the  author  and  the  man. 
The  first  is  always  at  our  mercy;  of  the  last  we  know  nothing. 
At  such  an  hour  Maltravers  could  feel  none  of  the  contempt 
that  proud,  none  of  the  wrath  that  vain,  minds  feel  at  these 
stings.  He  could  feel  nothing  but  an  undefined  abhorrence 
of  the  world,  and  of  the  aims  and  objects  he  had  pursued  so 
long.  Yet  that  even  he  did  not  then  feel.  He  was  in  a 
dream ;  but  as  men  remember  dreams,  so  when  he  awoke  did 
he  loathe  his  own  former  aspirations,  and  sicken  at  their  base 
rewards.  It  was  the  first  time  since  his  first  year  of  inexpe- 
rienced authorship  that  abuse  had  had  the  power  even  to  vex 
him  for  a  moment.  But  here,  when  the  cup  was  already  full, 
was  the  drop  that  overflowed.  The  great  column  of  his  past 
world  was  gone,  and  all  else  seemed  crumbling  away. 

At  length  Colonel  Danvers  entered.  Maltravers  drew  him 
aside,  and  they  left  the  club. 

"Danvers,"  said  the  latter,  "the  time  in  which  I  told  you 
I  should  need  your  services  is  near  at  hand;  let  me  see  3-ou, 
if  possible,  to-night." 

"  Certainly ;  I  shall  be  at  the  House  till  eleven.  After  that 
hour  you  will  find  me  at  home." 

"I  thank  you." 

"Cannot  this  matter  be  arranged  amicably?  " 

"Xo,  it  is  a  qviarrel  of  life  and  death." 

"Yet  the  world  is  really  growing  too  enlightened  for  these 
old  mimicries  of  single  combat." 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  395 

"  There  are  some  cases  in  which  human  nature  and  its  deep 
wrongs  will  be  ever  stronger  than  the  world  and  its  philoso- 
phy. Duels  and  wars  belong  to  the  same  principle, —  both 
are  sinful  on  light  grounds  and  poor  pretexts.  But  it  is  not 
sinful  for  a  soldier  to  defend  his  country  from  invasion,  nor 
for  man,  with  a  man's  heart,  to  vindicate  truth  and  honour 
with  his  life.  The  robber  that  asks  me  for  money  I  am  al- 
lowed to  shoot.  Is  the  robber  that  tears  from  me  treasures 
never  to  be  replaced,  to  go  free?  These  are  the  inconsisten- 
cies of  a  pseudo-ethics,  which,  as  long  as  we  are  made  of  flesh 
and  blood,  we  can  never  subscribe  to." 

"Yet  the  ancients,"  said  Danvers,  with  a  smile,  ''were  as 
passionate  as  ourselves,  and  they  dispensed  with  duels." 

"  Yes,  because  they  resorted  to  assassination !  "  answered 
Maltravers,  with  a  gloomy  frown.  "As  in  revolutions  all 
law  is  suspended,  so  are  there  stormy  events  and  mighty  in- 
juries in  life  which  are  as  revolutions  to  individuals.  Enough 
of  this;  it  is  no  time  to  argue  like  the  Schoolmen.  When  we 
meet  you  shall  know  all,  and  you  will  judge  like  me.  Good- 
day!" 

"What,  are  you  going  already?  Maltravers,  you  look  ill, 
your  hand  is  feverish;  you  should  take  advice." 

Maltravers  smiled, —  but  the  smile  was  not  like  his  own, — 
shook  his   head,  and  strode  rapidly  away. 

Three  of  the  London  clocks,  one  after  the  other,  had  told 
the  hour  of  nine  as  a  tall  and  commanding  figure  passed  up 
the  street  towards  Saxingham  House.  Five  doors  before  you 
reach  that  mansion  there  is  a  crossing,  and  at  this  spot  stood 
a  young  man,  in  whose  face  youth  itself  looked  sapless  and 
blasted.  It  was  then  March, — the  third  of  March ;  the  weather 
was  unusually  severe  and  biting,  even  for  that  angry  montli. 
There  had  been  snow  in  the  morning,  and  it  lay  white  and 
dreary  in  various  ridges  along  the  street.  But  the  wind  was 
not  still  in  the  keen  but  quiet  sharpness  of  frost;  on  the  con- 
trary, it  howled  almost  like  a  hurricane  through  the  desolate 
thoroughfares,  and  the  lamps  flickered  unsteadily  in  the  turbu- 
lent gusts.  Perhaps  it  was  these  blasts  which  increased  the 
haggardness  of  aspect  in  the  young  man  I  have  mentioned. 


396  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

His  hair,  whicli  was  much  longer  than  is  commonly  worn, 
was  tossed  wildly  from  cheeks  preternaturally  shrunken,  hol- 
low, and  livid;  and  the  frail,  thin  form  seemed  scarcely  able 
to  support  itself  against  the  rush  of  the  winds. 

As  the  tall  figure,  which,  in  its  masculine  stature  and  pro- 
portions, and  a  peculiar  and  nameless  grandeur  of  bearing, 
strongly  contrasted  that  of  the  younger  man,  now  came  to  the 
sjjot  where  the  streets  met,  it  paused  abruptly. 

"  You  are  here  once  more,  Castruccio  Cesarini ;  it  is  well !  " 
said  the  low  but  ringing  voice  of  Ernest  Maltravers.  "  This, 
I  believe,  will  not  be  our  last  interview  to-night." 

"I  ask  you,  sir,"  said  Cesarini,  in  a  tone  in  which  pride 
struggled  with  emotion, —  "I  ask  you  to  tell  me  how  she  is; 
whether  you  know  —  I  cannot  speak  —  " 

"Your  work  is  nearly  done,"  answered  Maltravers.  "A 
few  hours  more,  and  your  victim  —  for  she  is  yours  —  will 
bear  her  tale  to  the  Great  Judgment-seat.  Murderer  as  you 
are,  tremble,  for  your  own  hour  approaches !  " 

"She  dies,  and  I  cannot  see  her!  And  you  are  permitted 
that  last  glimpse  of  human  perfectness, —  you,  who  never 
loved  her  as  I  did;  you,  hated  and  detested;  you  —  " 

Cesarini  paused,  and  his  voice  died  away,  choked  in  his 
own  convulsive  gaspings  for  breath. 

Maltravers  looked  at  him  from  the  height  of  his  erect  and 
lofty  form,  with  a  merciless  eye;  for  in  this  one  quarter, 
Maltravers  had  shut  out  pity  from  his  soul. 

"  Weak  criminal,"  said  he,  "hear  me.  You  received  at  my 
hands  forbearance,  friendship,  fostering  and  anxious  care. 
When  your  own  follies  plunged  you  into  penury,  mine  was 
the  unseen  hand  that  plucked  you  from  famine  or  the  prison. 
I  strove  to  redeem  and  save  and  raise  you,  and  endow  your 
miserable  spirit  with  the  thirst  and  the  power  of  honour 
and  independence.  The  agent  of  that  wish  was  Florence 
Lascelles,  You  repaid  us  well!  —  a  base  and  fraudulent  for- 
gery, attaching  meanness  to  me,  fraught  with  agony  and  death 
to  her.  Your  conscience  at  last  smote  you ;  you  revealed  to 
her  your  crime, —  one  spark  of  manhood  made  you  reveal  it 
also  to  myself.     Fresh  as  I  was  in  that  moment  from  the  con- 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  397 

templation  of  the  ruin  you  had  made,  I  curbed  the  impulse 
that  would  have  crushed  the  life  from  your  bosom.  I  told 
you  to  live  on  while  life  was  left  to  her.  If  she  recovered,  1 
could  forgive;  if  she  died,  I  must  avenge.  We  entered  into 
that  solemn  compact,  and  in  a  few  hours  the  bond  will  need 
the  seal:  it  is  the  blood  of  one  of  us.  Castruccio  Cesarini, 
there  is  justice  in  Heaven.  Deceive  yourself  not;  you  will 
fall  by  my  hand.  When  the  hour  comes,  you  will  hear  from 
me.     Let  me  pass;  I  have  no  more  now  to  say." 

Every  syllable  of  this  speech  was  uttered  with  that  thrill- 
ing distinctness  which  seems  as  if  the  depth  of  the  heart 
spoke  in  the  voice.  But  Cesarini  did  not  appear  to  under- 
stand its  import.  He  seized  Maltravers  by  the  arm,  and 
looked  in  his  face  with  a  wild  and  menacing  glare. 

"Did  you  tell  me  she  was  dying?"  he  said.  "I  ask  you 
that  question:  why  do  you  not  answer  me?  Oh,  by  the  way, 
you  threaten  me  with  your  vengeance!  Know  you  not  that 
I  long  to  meet  you  front  to  front,  and  to  the  death?  Did  I 
not  tell  you  so?  Did  I  not  try  to  move  your  slow  blood, — 
to  insult  you  into  a  conflict  in  which  I  should  have  gloried? 
Yet  then  you  were  marble." 

"Because  my  wrong  I  could  forgive;  and  hers  —  there  was 
then  a  hope  that  hers  might  not  need  the  atonement.    Away!  " 

Maltravers  shook  the  hold  of  the  Italian  from  his  arm,  and 
passed  on.  A  wild,  sharp  yell  of  despair  rang  after  him  and 
echoed  in  his  ear  as  he  strode  the  long,  dim,  solitary  stairs 
that  led  to  the  death-bed  of  Florence  Lascelles. 

Maltravers  entered  the  room  adjoining  that  which  contained 
the  sufferer, — the  same  room,  still  gay  and  cheerful,  in 
which  had  been  his  first  interview  with  Florence  since  their 
reconciliation. 

Here  he  found  the  physician  dozing  in  a  fauteuU.  Lady 
Florence  had  fallen  asleep  during  the  last  two  or  three  hours. 
Lord  Saxingham  was  in  his  own  apartment,  deeply  and 
noisily  affected;  for  it  was  not  thought  that  Florence  could 
survive  the  night. 

Maltravers  sat  himself  quietly  down.  Before  him,  on  a 
table,  lay  several  manuscript  books,   gayly  and  gorgeously 


398  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

bound;  he  meclianically  opened  them.  Florence's  fair,  noble 
Italian  characters  met  his  eye  in  every  page.  Her  rich  and 
active  mind,  her  love  for  poetry,  her  thirst  for  knowledge, 
her  indulgence  of  deep  thought,  spoke  from  those  pages  like 
the  ghosts  of  herself.  Often,  underscored  with  the  marks 
of  her  approbation,  he  chanced  upon  extracts  from  his  own 
works,  sometimes  upon  reflections  by  the  writer  herself,  not 
inferior  in  truth  and  depth  to  his  own ;  snatches  of  wild  verse 
never  completed,  but  of  a  power  and  energy  beyond  the  deli- 
cate grace  of  lady-poets;  brief,  vigorous  criticisms  on  books, 
above  the  common  holiday  studies  of  the  sex;  indignant  and 
sarcastic  aphorisms  on  the  real  world,  with  high  and  sad 
bursts  of  feeling  upon  the  ideal  one, —  all,  checkering  and 
enriching  the  various  volumes,  told  of  the  rare  gifts  with 
which  this  singular  girl  was  endowed;  a  herbal,  as  it  were, 
of  withered  blossoms  that  might  have  borne  Hesperian  fruits. 
And  sometimes  in  these  outpourings  of  the  full  mind  and  laden 
heart  were  allusions  to  himself,  so  tender  and  so  touching, — 
the  pencilled  outline  of  his  features,  traced  by  memory  in  a 
thousand  aspects;  the  reference  to  former  interviews  and  con- 
versations, the  dates  and  hours  marked  with  a  woman's  minute 
and  treasuring  care!  All  these  tokens  of  genius  and  of  love 
spoke  to  him  with  a  voice  that  said :  "  And  this  creature  is 
lost  to  you  forever;  you  never  appreciated  her  till  the  time 
for  her  departure  was  irrevocably  fixed !  " 

Maltravers  uttered  a  deep  groan ;  all  the  past  rushed  over 
him, —  her  romantic  passion  for  one  yet  unknown;  her  in- 
terest in  his  glory;  her  zeal  for  his  life  of  life,  his  spotless 
and  haughty  name.  It  was  as  if  with  her,  Fame  and  Ambi- 
tion were  dying  also,  and  henceforth  nothing  but  common  clay 
and  sordid  motives  were  to  be  left  on  earth. 

How  sudden,  how  aAvfully  sudden,  had  been  the  blow! 
True,  there  had  been  an  absence  of  some  months,  in  which 
the  change  had  operated.  But  absence  is  a  blank,  a  nonen- 
tity. He  had  left  her  in  apparent  health,  in  the  tide  of  pros- 
perity and  pride.  He  saw  her  again,  stricken  down  in  body 
and  temper,  chastened,  humbled,  dying.  And  this  being,  so 
bright  and  lofty,  how  had  she  loved  him!    Never  had  he  been 


ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  399 

SO  loved,  except  iu  that  morning  dream,  haunted  by  the  vision 
of  the  lost  and  dim-remembered  Alice;  never  on  earth  could 
he  be  so  loved  again.  The  air  and  aspect  of  the  whole  cham- 
ber grew  to  him  painful  and  oppressive.  It  was  full  of  her, 
the  owner.  There  the  harp,  which  so  well  became  her  muse- 
like form  that  it  was  associated  with  her  like  a  part  of  her- 
self; there  the  pictures,  fresh  and  glowing  from  her  hand, — 
the  grace,  the  harmony,  the  classic  and  simple  taste  every- 
Avhere  displayed. 

Rousseau  has  left  to  us  an  immortal  portrait  of  the  lover 
waiting  for  the  first  embraces  of  his  mistress.  But  to  wait 
with  a  pulse  as  feverish,  a  brain  as  dizzy,  for  her  last  look; 
to  await  the  moment  of  despair,  not  rapture;  to  feel  the 
slow  and  dull  time  as  a  palpable  load  upon  the  heart,  yet  to 
shrink  from  your  own  impatience,  and  wish  that  the  agony 
of  suspense  might  endure  forever,  —  this,  oh,  this  is  a  picture 
of  intense  passion,  of  flesh-and-blood  reality,  of  the  rare  and 
solemn  epochs  of  our  mysterious  life,  which  had  been  worthier 
the  genius  of  that  "  Apostle  of  Affliction  " ! 

At  length  the  door  opened;  the  favourite  attendant  of 
Florence  looked  in. 

"Is  INIr.  Maltravers  there?  Oh,  sir,  ni}^  lady  is  awake  and 
would  see  you." 

Maltravers  rose ;  but  his  feet  were  glued  to  the  ground,  his 
sinking  heart  stood  still, —  it  was  a  mortal  terror  that  pos- 
sessed him.  With  a  deep  sigh  he  shook  off  the  numbing 
spell  and  passed  to  the  bedside  of  Florence. 

She  sat  up,  propped  by  pillows,  and  as  he  sank  beside  her, 
and  clasped  her  wan,  transparent  hand,  she  looked  at  him 
with  a  smile  of  pitying  love. 

"You  have  been  very,  very  kind  to  me,"  she  said,  after  a 
pause,  and  with  a  voice  which  had  altered  even  since  the  last 
time  he  heard  it.  "You  have  made  that  part  of  life  from 
which  human  nature  shrinks  with  dread,  the  happiest  and  the 
brightest  of  all  my  short  and  vain  existence.  My  own  dear 
Ernest,  Heaven  reward,  you !  " 

A  few  grateful  tears  dropped  from  her  eyes,  and  they  fell 
on  the  hand  which  she  bent  her  lips  to  kiss. 


400  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

"It  was  not  here,  nor  amidst  the  streets  and  the  noisy 
abodes  of  anxious,  worldly  men,  nor  was  it  in  this  harsh  and 
dreary  season  of  the  year  that  I  could  have  wished  to  look  my 
last  on  earth.  Could  I  have  seen  the  face  of  Nature ;  could  I 
have  watched  once  more  with  the  summer  sun  amidst  those 
gentle  scenes  we  loved  so  well, —  Death  would  have  had  no 
difference  from  sleep.  But  what  matters  it?  With  you  there 
are  summer  and  Nature  everywhere !  " 

Maltravers  raised  his  face,  and  their  eyes  met  in  silence;  it 
was  a  long,  fixed  gaze,  which  spoke  more  than  all  words  could. 
Her  head  dropped  on  his  shoulder,  and  there  it  lay,  passive 
and  motionless,  for  some  moments.  A  soft  step  glided  into 
the  room, —  it  was  the  unhappy  father's.  He  came  to  the 
other  side  of  his  daughter,  and  sobbed  convulsively. 

She  then  raised  herself,  and  even  in  the  shades  of  death,  a 
faint  blush  passed  over  her  cheek. 

"My  good,  dear  Father,  what  comfort  will  it  give  you  here- 
after to  think  how  fondly  you  spoiled  your  Florence !  " 

Lord  Saxingham  could  not  answer;  he  clasped  her  in  his 
arms  and  wept  over  her.  Then  he  broke  away,  looked  on  her 
with  a  shudder, — 

"O  God!  "  he  cried,  "she  is  dead,  she  is  dead!  " 

Maltravers  started.  The  physician  kindly  approached,  and 
taking  Lord  Saxingham's  hand,  led  him  from  the  room;  he 
went  mute  and  obedient  like  a  child. 

But  the  struggle  was  not  yet  past.  Florence  once  more 
opened  her  eyes,  and  Maltravers  uttered  a  cry  of  joy.  But 
along  those  eyes  the  film  was  darkening  rapidly,  as  still 
through  the  mist  and  shadow  they  sought  the  beloved  counte- 
nance which  hung  over  her,  as  if  to  breathe  life  into  waning 
life.  Twice  her  lips  moved,  but  her  voice  failed  her;  she 
shook  her  head  sadly. 

Maltravers  hastily  held  to  her  mouth  a  cordial  which  lay 
ready  on  the  table  near  her;  but  scarce  had  it  moistened  her 
lips  when  her  whole  frame  grew  heavier  and  heavier  in  his 
clasp.  Her  head  once  more  sank  upon  his  bosom ;  she  thrice 
gasped  wildly  for  breath;  and  at  length,  raising  her  hand  on 
high,  life  struggled  into  its  expiring  ray, — 


ERNEST   MALTRAVEUS.  401 

"  There  —  above !  —  Ernest  —  that  name  —  Ernest !  " 
Yes,  that  name  was  the  last  she  uttered ;  she  was  evidently 
conscious  of  that  thought,  for  a  smile,  as  her  voice  again 
faltered, —  a  smile  sweet  and  serene;  that  smile  never  seen 
but  on  the  faces  of  the  dying  and  the  dead,  borrowed  from  a 
light  that  is  not  of  this  world, —  settled  slowly  on  her  brow, 
her  lips,  her  whole  countenance.  Still  she  breathed,  but  the 
breath  grew  fainter;  at  length,  without  murmur,  sound,  or 
struggle,  it  passed  away,  the  head  dropped  from  his  bosom, 
the  form  fell  from  his  arms ;  all  was  over. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Is  this  tlie  jiromi.scd  ciitl '.  —  Lear. 

It  was  two  hours  after  that  scene  before  Maltravers  left 
the  house.  It  was  then  just  on  the  stroke  of  the  first  hour 
of  morning.  To  him  while  he  walked  through  the  streets, 
and  the  sharp  winds  howled  on  his  path,  it  was  as  if  a 
strange  and  wizard  life  had  passed  into  and  supported  him, — 
a  sort  of  drowsy,  dull  existence.  He  was  like  a  sleep-walker, 
unconscious  of  all  around  him,  yet  his  steps  went  safe  and  free ; 
and  the  one  thought  that  possessed  his  being,  into  which  all 
intellect  seemed  shrunk, —  the  thought,  not  fiery  nox  vehement, 
but  calm,  stern,  and  solemn,  the  thought  of  revenge, —  seemed, 
as  it  were,  grown  his  soul  itself.  He  arrived  at  the  door  of 
Colonel  Dan  vers,  mounted  the  stairs,  and  as  his  friend  advanced 
to  meet  him,  said  calmly,  "Now,  then,  the  hour  has  arrived.'' 

"But  what  would  you  do  now?  " 

"Come  with  me,  and  you  shall  learn." 

"Very  well,  my  carriage  is  below.  Will  you  direct  the 
servants?  " 

Maltravers  nodded,  gave  his  orders  to  the  careless  footman, 
and  the  two  friends  were  soon  driving  through  the  less-known 
and  courtly  regions  of  the  giant  city.     It  was  then  that  Mal- 

26 


402  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

travers  concisely  stated  to  Dan  vers  the  fraud  that  had  been 
practised  by  Cesarini. 

"You  will  go  with  me  now,"  concluded  Maltravers,  "to  his 
house.  To  do  him  justice,  he  is  no  coward;  he  has  not 
shrunk  from  giving  me  his  address,  nor  will  he  shrink  from 
the  atonement  I  demand.  I  shall  wait  below  while  you  ar- 
range our  meeting, —  at  daybreak  for  to-morrow." 

Danvers  was  astonished  and  even  appalled  by  the  discovery 
made  to  him.  There  was  something  so  unusual  and  strange 
in  the  whole  affair.  But  neither  his  experience  nor  his  prin- 
ciples of  honour  could  suggest  any  alternative  to  the  plan 
proposed;  for  though  not  regarding  the  cause  of  quarrel  in 
the  same  light  as  Maltravers,  and  putting  aside  all  question 
as  to  the  right  of  the  latter  to  constitute  himself  the  champion 
of  the  betrothed  or  the  avenger  of  the  dead,  it  seemed  clear  to 
the  soldier  that  a  man  whose  confidential  letter  had  been  gar- 
bled by  another  for  the  purpose  of  slandering  his  truth  and 
calumniating  his  name,  had  no  option  but  contempt,  or  the 
sole  retribution  (wretched  though  it  be)  which  the  customs  of 
the  higher  class  permit  to  those  who  live  within  its  pale. 
But  contempt  for  a  wrong  that  a  sorrow  so  tragic  had  fol- 
lowed,—  was  that  option  in  human  philosophy? 

The  carriage  stopped  at  a  door  in  a  narrow  lane  in  an  ob- 
scure suburb.  Yet  dark  as  all  the  houses  around  were,  lights 
were  seen  in  the  upper  windows  of  Cesarini's  residence,  pass- 
ing to  and  fro;  and  scarce  had  the  servant's  loud  knock  echoed 
through  the  dim  thoroughfare,  ere  the  door  was  opened. 
Danvers  descended  and  entered  the  passage:  "Oh,  sir,  I  am 
so  glad  you  are  come!"  said  an  old  woman,  pale  and  trem- 
bling; "he  do  take  on  so!  " 

"There  is  no  mistake,"  asked  Danvers,  halting, —  "an  Ital- 
ian gentleman  named  Cesarini  lodges  here?  " 

"Yes,  sir,  poor  cretur.  I  sent  for  you  to  come  to  him;  for, 
says  I  to  my  boy,  says  I  —  " 

"Whom  do  you  take  me  for?  " 

"Why,  la,  sir,  you  he's  the  doctor,  be  n't  you?  " 

Danvers  made  no  reply.  He  had  a  mean  opinion  of  the 
courage  of  one  who  could  act  dishonourably ;  he  thought  there 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  403 

was  some  design  to  cheat  his  friend  out  of  his  revenge;  accor- 
dingly, he  ascended  the  stairs,  motioning  the  woman  to  pre- 
cede him. 

He  came  back  to  the  door  of  the  carriage  in  a  few  minutes. 
"Let  us  go  home,  Maltravers,"  said  he;  "this  man  is  not  in 
a  state  to  meet  you." 

"Ha!  "  cried  Maltravers,  frowning  darkly,  and  all  his  long- 
smothered  indignation  rushing  like  tire  through  every  vein  of 
his  body,  "  would  he  shrink  from  the  atonement?  "  He  jmslied 
Danvers  impatiently  aside,  leaped  from  the  carriage,  and 
rushed  upstairs. 

Danvers  followed. 

Heated,  wrought-up,  furious,  Ernest  Maltravers  burst  into 
a  small  and  squalid  chamber,  from  the  closed  doors  of  which, 
through  many  chinks,  had  gleamed  the  light  that  told  him 
Cesarini  was  within.  And  Cesarini's  eyes,  blazing  with  hor- 
rible fire,  were  the  first  object  that  met  his  gaze.  Maltravers 
stood  still,  as  if  frozen  into  stone. 

"Ha!  ha!"  laughed  a  shrill  and  shrieking  voice,  which 
contrasted  dreadly  with  the  accents  of  the  soft  Tuscan  in 
which  the  wild  words  were  strung,  "who  comes  here  with 
garments  dyed  in  blood?  You  cannot  accuse  me,  for  my 
blow  drew  no  blood,  it  went  straight  to  the  heart,  it  tore  no 
flesh  by  the  way;  we  Italians  poison  our  victims!  Where  art 
thou,  where  art  thou,  Maltravers?  I  am  ready.  Coward, 
you  do  not  come!  Oh,  yes,  yes,  here  you  are!  The  pistols, — 
I  will  not  fight  so.  I  am  a  wild  beast.  Let  us  rend  each 
other  with  our  teeth  and  talons !  " 

Huddled  up  like  a  heap  of  confused  and  jointless  limbs  in 
the  farthest  corner  of  the  room  lay  the  wretch,  a  raving 
maniac, — two  men  keeping  their  firm  gripe  on  him,  which 
ever  and  anon,  with  the  mighty  strength  of  madness,  he 
shook  off,  to  fall  back  senseless  and  exhausted ;  his  strained 
and  bloodshot  eyes  starting  from  their  sockets,  the  slaver 
gathering  round  his  lips,  his  raven  hair  standing  on  end,  his 
delicate  and  symmetrical  features  distorted  into  a  hideous  and 
Gorgon  aspect.  It  was,  indeed,  an  a})palling  and  sublime 
spectacle,  full  of  an  awful  moral, —  the  meeting  of  the  foes! 


404  ERNEST   MALTRAVERS. 

Here  stood  Maltravers,  strong  beyond  the  common  strength 
of  men,  in  health,  power,  conscious  superiority,  premeditated 
vengeance;  wise,  gifted;  all  his  faculties  ripe,  developed,  at 
his  command;  the  complete  and  all-armed  man,  prepared  for 
defence  and  offence  against  every  foe, —  a  man  who,  once 
roused  in  a  righteous  quarrel,  would  not  have  quailed  before 
an  army ;  and  there  and  thus  was  his  dark  and  fierce  purpose 
dashed  from  his  soul,  shivered  into  atoms  at  his  feet.  He 
felt  the  nothingness  of  man  and  man's  wrath  in  the  presence 
of  the  madman  on  whose  head  the  thunderbolt  of  a  greater 
curse  than  human  anger  ever  breathes  had  fallen.  In  his 
horrible  affliction  the  Criminal  triumphed  over  the  Avenger! 

"Yes,  yes,"  shouted  Cesarini  again,  "they  tell  me  she  is 
dying;  but  he  is  by  her  side.  Pluck  him  thence;  he  shall 
not  touch  her  hand, —  she  shall  not  bless  him;  she  is  mine. 
If  I  killed  her,  I  have  saved  her  from  him;  she  is  mine  in 
death.  Let  me  in,  I  say;  I  will  come  in, —  I  will,  I  will  see 
her,  and  strangle  him  at  her  feet."  With  that,  by  a  tremen- 
dous effort  he  tore  himself  from  the  clutch  of  his  holders,  and 
with  a  sudden  and  exultant  bound  sprang  across  the  room  and 
stood  face  to  face  with  Maltravers.  The  proud,  brave  man 
turned  pale  and  recoiled  a  step.  "  It  is  he,  it  is  he !  "  shrieked 
the  maniac,  and  he  leaped  like  a  tiger  at  the  throat  of  his 
rival.  Maltravers  quickly  seized  his  arm,  and  whii-led  him 
round.  Cesarini  fell  heavily  on  the  floor,  mute,  senseless, 
and  in  strong  convulsions. 

"Mysterious  Providence,"  murmured  Maltravers,  "thou 
hast  justly  rebuked  the  mortal  for  dreaming  he  might  arrogate 
to  himself  thy  privilege  of  vengeance !  Forgive  the  sinner,  O 
God,  as  I  do, —  as  thou  teachest  this  stubborn  heart  to  for- 
give ;  as  she  forgave  who  is  now  with  thee,  a  blessed  saint  in 
heaven ! " 

When,  some  minutes  afterwards,  the  doctor  who  had  been 
sent  for  arrived,  the  head  of  the  stricken  patient  lay  on  the 
lap  of  his  foe,  and  it  was  the  hand  of  Maltravers  that  wiped 
the  froth  from  the  white  li])s,  and  the  voice  of  Maltravers 
that  strove  to  soothe,  and  the  tears  of  Maltravers  that  were 
falling  on  that  fiery  brow. 


ERNEST   MALTHA  VERS.  405 

"Tend  him,  sir,  tend  him  as  my  brother,"  said  Maltravers, 
hiding  his  face  as  he  resigned  the  charge.  "  Let  him  have  all 
that  can  alleviate  and  cure.  Remove  him  hence  to  some  fitter 
abode;  send  for  the  best  advice,  liestore  him,  and  —  and  —  " 
He  could  say  no  more,  but  left  the  room  abruptly. 

It  was  afterwards  ascertained  that  Cesarini  had  remained 
in  the  streets  after  his  short  interview  with  Ernest;  that  at 
length  he  had  knocked  at  Lord  Saxingham's  door  just  in  the 
very  hour  when  death  had  claimed  its  victim.  He  heard  the 
announcement,  he  sought  to  force  his  way  upstairs;  they 
thrust  him  from  the  house,  and  nothing  more  of  him  was 
known  till  he  arrived  at  his  own  door,  an  hour  before  Danvers 
and  Maltravers  came,  in  raging  frenzy.  Perhaps  by  one  of 
the  dim,  erratic  gleams  of  light  which  always  checker  the 
darkness  of  insanity,  he  retained  some  faint  remembrance  of 
his  compact  and  assignation  with  Maltravers,  which  had 
happily  guided  his  steps  back  to  his  abode. 

It  was  two  months  after  this  scene,  a  lovely  Sabbath  morn- 
ing, in  the  earliest  May,  as  Lumley,  Lord  Vargrave,  sat  alone 
by  the  window  in  his  late  uncle's  villa,  in  his  late  uncle's 
easy-chair;  his  eyes  were  resting  musingly  on  the  green  lawn 
on  which  the  windows  opened,  or  rather  on  two  forms  that 
were  seated  upon  a  rustic  bench  in  the  middle  of  the  sward. 
One  was  the  widow  in  her  weeds,  the  other  was  that  fair 
and  lovely  child  destined  to  be  the  bride  of  the  new  lord. 
The  hands  of  the  mother  and  daughter  were  clasped  each  in 
each.  There  was  sadness  in  the  faces  of  both, —  deeper,  if 
more  resigned,  on  that  of  the  elder;  for  the  child  sought  to 
console  her  parent,  and  grief  in  childhood  comes  with  a 
butterfly's  wing. 

Lumley  gazed  on  them  both,  and  on  the  child  more 
earnestly. 

"She  is  verjMovely,"  he  said;  "she  wnll  be  very  rich.  After 
all,  I  am  not  to  be  pitied.  I  am  a  peer,  and  I  hare  enough  to 
live  upon  at  present.  I  am  a  rising  man, —  our  party  want 
peers;  and  tliougli  I  could  not  liave  had  more  than  a  subal- 
tern's seat  at  the  Treasury  Board  six  mouths  ago,  when  I  was 


406  ERNEST  MALTRAVERS. 

an  active,  zealous,  able  commoner,  now  that  I  am  a  lord,  with 
what  they  call  a  stake  in  the  country,  I  may  open  my  mouth 
and  —  bless  me,  I  know  not  how  many  windfalls  may  drop  in ! 
My  uncle  was  wiser  than  I  thought  in  wrestling  for  this  peer- 
age which  he  won  and  I  wear!  Then,  by  and  by,  just  at  the 
age  when  I  want  to  marry  and  have  an  heir  (and  a  pretty  wife 
saves  one  a  vast  deal  of  trouble),  two  hundred  thousand  pounds 
and  a  young  beauty!  Come,  come,  I  have  strong  cards  in  my 
hands,  if  I  play  them  tolerably.  I  must  take  care  that  she 
falls  desperately  in  love  with  me.  Leave  me  alone  for  that; 
I  know  the  sex,  and  have  never  failed  except  in  —  Ah,  that 
poor  Florence!  Well,  it  is  no  use  regretting!  Like  thrifty 
artists,  we  must  paint  out  the  unmarketable  picture,  and  call 
luckier  creations  to  fill  up  the  same  canvas!  " 

Here  the  servant  interrupted  Lord  Vargrave's  meditation 
by  bringing  in  the  letters  and  the  newspapers  which  had  just 
been  forwarded  from  his  town  house.  Lord  Vargrave  had 
spoken  in  the  Lords  on  the  previous  Friday,  and  he  wished 
to  see  what  the  Sunday  newspapers  said  of  his  speech.  So 
he  took  up  one  of  the  leading  papers  before  he  opened  the 
letters.  His  eyes  rested  upon  two  paragraphs  in  close  neigh- 
bourhood with  each  other;  the  first  ran  thus:  — 

"  The  celebrated  ^Ir.  Maltravers  has  abruptly  resigned  his  seat  for 

the of ,  and  left  town  yesterday  on  an  extended  tour  on  the 

Continent.  Speculation  is  busy  on  the  causes  of  the  singular  and  unex- 
pected self-exile  of  a  gentleman  so  distinguished,  in  the  very  zenith  of 
his  career." 

"So,  he  has  given  up  the  game!  "  muttered  Lord  Vargrave; 
"he  was  never  a  practical  man, —  I  am  glad  he  is  out  of  the 
way.     But  what 's  this  about  myself?  " 

"  We  hear  that  important  changes  are  to  take  place  in  the  Govern- 
ment. It  is  said  that  ministers  are  at  last  alive  to  the  necessity  of 
strengthening  themselves  with  new  talent.  Among  other  appointments 
confidently  spoken  of  in  the  best-informed  circles,  we  learn  that  Lord 
Vargrave  is  to  have  the  place  of .  It  will  be  a  popular  appoint- 
ment. Lord  Vargrave  is  not  a  holiday  orator,  a  mere  declamatory 
rhetorician,  but  a  man  of  clear,  business-like  views,  and  was  highly 
thought  of  in  the  House  of  Commons.     lie  has  also  the  art  of  attaching 


ERNEST   MALTRAVERS.  407 

his  friends  ;  and  his  frank,  manly  ciiaractor  cannot  fail  to  have  its  due 
effect  with  the  English  public.  In  another  column  of  our  journal  our 
readers  will  see  a  full  report  of  his  excellent  maiden  speech  in  the 
House  of  Lords  on  Friday  last ;  the  sentiments  there  expressed  do  the 
highest  honour  to  his  lordship's  patriotism  and  sagacity." 

"Very  well,  very  well  indeed!  "  said  Lumloy,  rubbing  his 
hands;  and  turning  to  liis  letters,  liis  attention  was  drawn  to 
one  with  a  enormous  seal,  marked  "Private  and  confidential." 
He  knew  before  he  opened  it  that  it  contained  the  offer  of  the 
appointment  alluded  to  in  the  newspaper.  He  read,  and  rose 
exultantly;  passing  through  the  French  windows,  he  joined 
Lady  Vargrave  and  Evelyn  on  the  lawn,  and  as  he  smiled  on 
the  mother  and  caressed  the  child,  the  scene  and  the  group 
made  a  pleasant  picture  of  English  domestic  happiness. 

Here  ends  the  First  Portion  of  this  work ;  it  ends  in  the 
view  that  bounds  us  when  we  look  on  the  practical  world 
with  the  outward,  unspiritual  eye,  and  see  life  that  dissatis- 
fies justice, —  for  life  is  so  seen  but  in  fragments.  The  in- 
fluence of  Fate  seems  so  small  on  the  man  who  in  erring  but 
errs  as  the  egoist,  and  shapes  out  of  ill  some  use  that  can 
profit  himself.  But  Fate  hangs  a  shadow  so  vast  on  the  heart 
that  errs  but  in  venturing,  and  knows  only  in  others  the 
sources  of  sorrow  and  joy. 

Go  alone,  0  Maltravers,  unfriended,  remote,  thy  present  a 
waste,  and  thy  past  life  a  ruin,  go  forth  to  the  future!  Go, 
Ferrers,  light  cynic,  with  the  crowd  take  thy  way,  compla- 
cent, elated,  no  cloud  tipon  conscience,  for  thou  seest  but 
sunshine  on  fortune,  go  forth  to  the  future! 

Human  life  is  compared  to  the  circle.  Is  the  simile  just? 
All  lines  that  are  drawn  from  the  centre  to  touch  the  circum- 
ference, by  the  law  of  the  circle,  are  equal.  But  the  lines 
that  are  drawn  from  the  heart  of  the  man  to  the  verge  of  his 
destiny,  —  do  they  equal  each  other?  Alas!  some  seem  so 
brief,  and  some  lengthen  on  as  forever. 

THE   END. 


mm 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


.6Mar'58J'7 


REC'D  LD 


AUG  1 ""  '^^' 


MAR  13  19E 


AUTO.  DIS'J. 


AUU  iii  g  \d49^ 


.9f-'62sl 


:iRniji  ATio^i 


fi^c^n  rn 


J  UN  19  1962 


JAN  061996 


27iul'62'.^^S- 


0  9  ZOO* 


DEC 


^gC-D  LP 


■^^L;g5  196? 


LD  21A-50m-8,'67 
(C8481sl0)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


CDflOBbLBl. 


